


and i hope it gets to you on some pacific wind

by dandyholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Drug Addiction, First Kiss, Lots of Hospitals, Love Confession, M-Theory based, M/M, Mary is a villain, Miscarriage, Miscommunication, Pining, Resolved Romantic Tension, Series 4 Fix-It, Slow Burn, Specific TWs in Chapter Notes, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-09-28 06:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10076315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandyholmes/pseuds/dandyholmes
Summary: "It’s been a week since I threw the flashdrive into the fireplace of Sherlock’s parents house while I pushed the scripted, prepared words out of my mouth.Keep the baby safe, keep the baby safe, it’s not about you it’s about her, keep the baby safe.It’s been a week since Sherlock shot Magnussen in the face and was put in a jail cell, alone. It took less than a minute for me to regret what I said."In chapters that switch between Sherlock and John's perspectives, we see them go through the story they should have in series 4. This will go through each episode in three chapter long intervals. (TST chapters 1-3, TLD 4-6, TFP 7-9) This is based heavily off of the parts I liked from series 4 (most/all of which are from TLD) and M-Theory.John and Sherlock are taken back to the end of TAB in which none of s4 has happened, and they deal with the effects of what should have happened.Title is based onWish That You Were Hereby Florence + the Machine





	1. you're disappearing all the time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Six Thatchers pt. 1 - John

This car feels utterly suffocating.

Just half an hour ago he was going to leave. Again. And now there’s all of this shit with Moriarty and he told me to go back to Mary a week ago but maybe it was all part of the plan. Does he even have a plan? How am I supposed to know anything anymore? How am I supposed to follow behind him like a loyal companion if he won’t fucking tell me anything?

_“John, there’s something I should say- I’ve meant to say, always, but I never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll meet again, I might as well say it now.”_ What could’ve led him to—? It couldn’t be— No, why would he possibly—

Doesn’t matter. Moriarty.

I only now notice Mary filling the seat beside me. She feels like a curse. The curse who just happens to be my wife, who happens to be carrying my child, who _shot Sherlock,_ who shot the man I lo—

_Stop_.

It’s been a week since I threw the flashdrive into the fireplace of Sherlock’s parents house while I pushed the scripted, prepared words out of my mouth. _Keep the baby safe, keep the baby safe, it’s not about you it’s about her, keep the baby safe._ It’s been a week since Sherlock shot Magnussen in the face and was put in a jail cell, alone. It took less than a minute for me to regret what I said.

Oh. We’re at Baker Street. Sherlock rushes onto the street and it takes me 5 seconds longer than normal to realize why we shouldn’t even be here. I step out of the car quickly and grab Sherlock’s arm.

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?”

“Moriarty’s back, John, we have to do something. Now.” Sherlock looks at my hand, latched onto his bicep. I pull him closer.

“You’re hardly even conscious, you just overdosed on half a pharmacy’s worth of drugs, just— You’re going to the hospital,” I can’t seem to let go of his arm. He tries to budge to open ou-his front door.

“John, _please_ , I’ll be fine, I just need to get inside,” his eyes are more red than they were on the plane. Probably the drugs.

I sigh, and let go of his arm. “Fine. Go. Tell me what I need to do.” I still feel like I’m suffocating and realise it wasn’t the car that did it. I look back to Mary and gesture mindlessly for her to follow inside. I keep forgetting she’s here.

I follow behind Sherlock up the stairs to 221B. Once we get into the sitting room, I check. I always check, every time I’m here for the last six months. Chair’s still there.

“So, what now? What’s Moriarty planning next?” Mary asks as if she’s wide-eyed and innocent. It turns my stomach.

Sherlock sighs reservedly, “I ca-,” he stumbles, “I can’t say for sure, but I’m his target. He’ll find me when he wants to.”

Mary, sits herself down on the sofa with a groan, making a point of just _how_ pregnant she is and how annoyed she is at the same time. My chest aches and I’m not really sure why, so I look to Sherlock as if he can fix it somehow. I keep my eyes locked on him as if looking away might make him disappear.

“You don’t have any clear idea of what needs doing yet, and he hasn’t made any direct contact with you. I’m taking you to the bloody hospital.”

Sherlock just stands there for a few seconds, clearly unwilling to admit defeat. Mary is invisible. “Fine.” So that’s that.

“John, I really should be going home now,” Mary’s voice brings me spinning back around to look at her. Back to reality, I guess.

“Oh. Shit, yeah. Go rest. I’ll, er, text you later?” I don’t want to text her. I don’t want to think about her. It’s her fault any of this even happened in the first fucking pla—

I look down at the floor so she can’t see what I’m thinking.

The three of us head out the door, out of the flat, and Mycroft has left the car outside. His new-found (or maybe not so new found. Necessary?) faith in my ability to take care of his brother is both strange and comforting.

Mary takes a cab.

I pretend I’m not worried about leaving her out of my sight.

But it doesn’t matter. Time to go take care of Sherlock.

—

They immediately place Sherlock in Intensive Care, as per my demand. I tell the doctors they have to keep me up to date on how he’s doing throughout the process or I’ll go in there myself. Finally, after a few hours, they let me go into Sherlock’s room.

His room is small and the sound of the heart monitor (steady, stable, he’s okay for now.) reverberates against the walls. The sun is setting outside the window and the last beams of sunlight spread onto the bed to cover him. He’s asleep, but it’s not a deep rest. He looks unbelievably vulnerable in his hospital bed, and at least 5 years younger. Despite the horrific situation at hand right now, I can’t help but smile a bit at him. (He’s beautif— _shut up.)_

I pull a chair up next to the right side of the bed and let him sleep. I can feel the weight of the day pulling me down as time (hours, minutes?) passes. Sherlock’s sleep deepens. My hand is placed lazily on the bed. I never text Mary.

“I’m sorry,” falls out of my exhausted mouth. I’m not quite sure what I’m apologising for but it feels necessary. What am I _not_ apologising for, really? I close my eyes and let the simple “sorry” be enough. It’s only the bare surface of what we need to talk about, but it’s okay for now.

Right as I’m about to pass out, I hear, “I’m sorry, too.” I wonder if it’s a dream.

—

I wake up and the clock on the wall says it’s 5:15AM. My neck is sore from leaning against the stiff plastic chair and my hand is still resting on Sherlock’s bed, near his ribs. Sherlock’s head is turned away from me, but his breaths are too shallow for him to be asleep.

“It’s painfully early,” I say, trying not to startle him. Sherlock must know I’m awake, but even still.

“You still managed about 9 hours of sleep, though. You were tired.” Sherlock keeps his head turned towards the window. The sun is just starting to peek over the horizon. I look at my hand.

“God, yeah, that was quite the day.” I pause and look up at the heart monitor and the saline bag. “You alright?”

Sherlock takes a deeper breath and his body shakes a bit on the exhale. I suppose that’s the only answer I’m getting.

“I’m sure Mycroft’s happy with himself," he says.

“This isn’t for Mycroft.” Who was it for? Me? Himself? Why did he OD in the first place? My thoughts get more rushed as my body wakes up and my chest starts to ache again.

Finally, Sherlock turns his head to look at me. “You stayed.” There’s a tinge of surprise in it, as if he didn’t expect me to be here. He told me to go back to Mary after all of this. After nursing him back to health and dressing his wounds and sleeping in 221B for a month. Does he truly think after all of that I’m even capable of being anywhere else?

Instead of that, I say, “Yeah, I did.” He doesn’t respond, and slowly dozes off.

—

My phone vibrates two hours later. A cup of neglected cold coffee is on the counter behind me with a half eaten bagel. Sherlock’s still sleeping. I know it’s her, and I know I have to look no matter how much I don’t want to.

 

**_Mary /_ ** _7:18 AM_

Are you coming home soon?

**_SENT /_ ** _7:20 AM_

Probably should, yeah. I’ll get things sorted with the nurses and be there in about an hour. He should be ok for now.

**_Mary /_ ** _7:21 AM_

Always the vigilant doctor.

**_typing…_ **

_Anything to keep him saf_

**_SENT /_ ** _7:23 AM_

See you soon.

 

I shake my head and shove my phone into my pocket. _(don’twanttoleavehimdon’twanttogo)._ I stand up. I know I have to go _home. To my wife. Who’s expecting my child. Christ._

I look at him and try to smile. My chest has yet to stop hurting. Before I let myself think, I find myself brushing a curl away from Sherlock’s forehead.

“I’ll be back later, I promise.”

I go to the house I own with a woman whose real name I do not know.

It’s the first time I’ve found myself missing a hospital room.


	2. and i never minded being on my own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Six Thatchers pt. 2 - Sherlock

A hospital room at 3:17AM is certainly not somewhere anyone would enjoy being alone. There is no view outside the window and it’s tight and confined like a cell (not unlike the one I was in last week), but my stomach twists at this disgustingly _empty_ chair next to me.

John came by one more time after he was summoned away that first morning. He brought me food. We didn’t talk about Mary. I almost let myself forget.

Sleep is impossible. I rarely dream, but when I do it’s the same “Did you miss me?” over and over again until I can’t keep my eyes shut anymore.

When John was here, the nightmares didn’t come.

He has a wife, he’s not supposed to be here anyway. It’s fine.

I miss hi— It’s _fine._

Clamp my eyes shut. I _know_ it’s not that simple, but objective thought doesn’t come as easy in the dead of night with no sleep. I’ll be discharged in the morning, I can sleep eventually, _it’s. fine._

—

I’m not surprised to find a black car outside the hospital, ready and equipped to take me home. One of Mycroft’s minions opens the door for me and welcomes me into the roomy town car.

The false sense of comfort that is ever present in Mycroft’s government vehicles and offices is more prominent than usual. The matte leather seats appear almost sticky and I feel ill just considering that _Mycroft_ has to be the one, albeit indirectly, to return me to my flat. It could’ve been John, but no. _He’s back to his normal life._ My body feels heavy with the reminder.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

 

 **_John_ ** _/ 10:48 AM_

You home now?

 **_SENT_ ** _/ 10:49 AM_

Will be in 6 minutes.

 **_John /_ ** _10:53 AM_

Mycroft got you I imagine?

 **_SENT /_ ** _10:54 AM_

Technically one of his faceless servants did, but yes. Glad to finally be out of that miniscule hospital room.

**_typing…_ **

_Wouldn’t have minded a couple more days of you sleeping next to m_

**_John /_ ** _10:57 AM_

I’m sure you’re glad to finally be back home now after all that.

**_typing…_ **

_After which part exactly there were kind of a lo_

**_SENT /_ ** _10:59 AM_

Now I can finally get some work done. Once Mrs. Hudson stops smothering me with tea and biscuits.

 **_John /_ ** _11:04 AM_

She means the best. Anyway, I’d better be off, the surgery’s packed today and my break’s over.

 **_SENT /_ ** _11:05 AM_

I’ll let you know if I survive Mrs. Hudson.

—

~~I haven’t seen John in weeks. I work to pretend it’s okay when I know he’s setting up the nursery for his child that he has with his wife who I told him to go back to and I don’t have a right to feel upset about that. I feel like my body is a robot and I, as myself, no longer exist.~~

~~John might be in danger. Need to keep John out of danger~~.

I haven’t seen John in weeks. I work. It’s okay.

—

**_typing…_ **

_I need your hel_

**_typing…_ **

_I wasn’t sure if maybe you wanted to help with this ca_

**_typing…_ **

_Please tell me you’re not doing anythi_

**_SENT /_ ** _4:38 PM_

I have a new lead in an aspect of Moriarty’s game if you’re interested.

 **_John /_ ** _4:41 PM_

I wish I could, we’re building the cot for the baby tonight and painting the nursery.

**_typing…_ **

_I don’t know why I expected something el_

**_typing…_ **

_I don’t really have much to go off of on this lead I don’t have to do it tonight I could help maybe if you wanted do you want m_

**_SENT /_ ** _4:43 PM_

Maybe next time.

—

There is a case with these busts of Margaret Thatcher being smashed all over London. Reminds me of that case John and I had after The Woman business with that other Thatcher bust. It was painfully boring. As I solve this new case I realize that in the other one was probably the overbearing girl best friend who did it and she framed the victim’s boyfriend for it. Homophobia. Framing. Maybe that old case was more interesting than I thought.

Sounds a bit too close to home.

Apparently this guy was trying to find the Black Pearl of the Borgias inside one of the six busts. Mycroft and Lestrade have been bugging me incessantly for weeks to find the stupid pearl, so I assume they’re happy. Lestrade arrests him. I pretend it was interesting. Took us a couple days.

I work.

It’s okay.

—

Figuring out that Magnussen worked for Moriarty was one of the easiest threads to tie. Almost too perfectly sensical. Almost too logical. Of course, why wouldn’t he use a press giant with no moral code? The pieces of some horrifically twisted puzzle I thought were long over and solved. For the first time, the work is lacking the fun and passion it once had. Perhaps it’s because

 

 **_John /_ ** _8:19 PM_

We’re having a group of neighbours over and I’m realizing how bloody boring small talk is when it’s all you’ve been doing the entire day..

 

Why is John so opposed to having guests? It’s not like him to hate company, he usually likes it a bit more than me, and certainly enough to not resent them for _existing._ His bitterness doesn’t make any sense.

 

 **_SENT /_ ** _8:20 PM_

You’re starting to sound like me.

 **_John /_ ** _8:21 PM_

Maybe it’s contagious.

 

What am I supposed to say to _that_? He hasn’t seen me in three weeks. How could anything I do be contagious to him. The scar on my sternum aches.

—

The walls of 221B are covered in photographs and newspaper articles from 2011-2015. Strings tie cases that were obscure and detached together like some horrendous path down into the depths of criminal deception. I feel sick realising the minute details I’ve missed; that I’ve somehow been allowed to miss.

If Moriarty’s threats on that rooftop were genuine, how are these things allowed to fall through the cracks? Was this all just part of some horrific plot?

—

My phone buzzes and it’s John. He rarely _calls_ me anymore, and I instantly know what it is:

“How far along is she?”

“She- she’s bleeding, Sherlock. I don’t expect you’d want to—” _Fuck._

“I’m on my way.”

“Sherlock you don’t have to—”

“Shut up. I’ll be at the hospital in 20 minutes.” Hang up. Grab my coat. Put on scarf. Run downstairs. Battle stations. Let’s go.

“Sherlock, dear, where are you rushing off to?” Mrs. Hudson must have heard the door slam and she’s standing in the middle of the foyer in her night clothes.

“Baby,” is all I say and all that’s needed before I head off into the February chill.  
Time to help John.


	3. i scramble for the light to change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Six Thatchers pt. 3 - John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs: alcoholism, suicidal ideation, miscarriage (this trigger will apply to at least the next four chapters, if not the rest of the fic. tread lightly friends)

The weeks that pass without seeing Sherlock are filled with buying things for the baby. We set up the nursery, I paint the walls. She sets up the bookshelf. It’s _almost_ normal. It’s _almost_ something.

 

**_typing…_ **

_I know I should be happy to be a father but I want to be with yo_

**_typing…_ **

_You’re probably busy with something important and don’t want me weighing you down but I hate being here I want to be with you plea_

**_typing…_ **

_Please tell me there’s a case you want me to go o_

**_typing…_ **

_Is there something, anything, you want me for anymor_

 

“John!” Mary pulls me away from my phone and I see the wet, **red,** spot on her trousers and on the floor.

_Fuck._

I don’t remember what I said but we’re getting our coats and our bags and I’m calling Sherlock:

“How far along is she?” Of course he knows. Why wouldn’t he know.

“She- she’s bleeding, Sherlock. I don’t expect you’d want to—”

“I’m on my way.” What? Why would he. He doesn’t. He wouldn’t.

“Sherlock you don’t have to—”

“Shut up. I’ll be at the hospital in 20 minutes.” He hangs up. Always here to help, it seems.

—

I’m a doctor. Why am I shaking. _I’m a doctor. This happens._

I can’t feel my fingertips as panicked static rushes through my bloodstream. It’s too real and _I haven’t seen Sherlock in three weeks_ and I don’t know what I’m doing. Dear God.

I know my body is following the doctor and nurses and Mary towards the room in the maternity ward, but my brain has been left behind. The lights of the ward pierce my eyes and I have to sit down in the waiting room, away from the voices and sounds of the room.

_Shitshitshitshitshitshit._

I see a blurry Sherlock enter from down the hallway through my watery eyes. I look up to meet his face and let out a shaky breath. _He’s here, it’s okay. I’m gonna be okay._

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Sherlock looks a bit like a lost child, but he sits down next to me and stares forward. Trying to be the sane one here. He always was in the end, wasn’t he? I’m certainly not right now, that’s for bloody sure.

Mary screams in the delivery room. The hairs on my arms stand on end.

“I’m an utterly useless doctor, it seems,” my voice is small.

“You’re not supposed to be a doctor right now,” Sherlock’s putting extra effort into being more calming than usual. He puts a warm hand on my back. My clothes start to feel real again. I guess it’s working.

Sherlock says nothing. The silence is deafening. I need to move.

“I’ll go check on things, I guess.” Sherlock nods. Time to try to be good at _something._

The delivery room has probably 8 nurses in there and our doctor all crowded around Mary. I know this is bad but I can’t get close enough to ask any of them what’s wrong and my brain is only about half-working. I know I should stay anyway, _be a good husband,_ but I feel the world crashing down before me as each minute ticks by on the clock. I have to get out of here, now.

As time passed, I keep trying and failing to help. Sherlock is always there in the waiting room with a full cup of water when I come back.

I don’t know why he thinks I deserve it.

—

Two hours later, I come into the hospital room to try again and the room is too quiet. Mary is crying. _Oh God_.

“What happened.” It’s not a question, not really. I know.

The doctor says something about her losing the baby because of one thing or _something completely irrelevant._

Breathing is not possible.

I wish I had enough willpower to be angry.

Tears fall down Mary’s cheeks silently and all she says is, “I’m sorry, John.”

I find it almost laughable how many times she decided _not_ to say those words and that this moment was when she finally does. The constant false exterior that surrounds her words doesn’t matter right now.

—

My marriage is a ghost. It already was. I drown my first week of being childless with 4 bottles of scotch whiskey and I do not know when my wife is here and isn’t.

I hate myself for wanting to be with Sherlock. I hate myself for being too caught up in myself to be able to go into the delivery room for longer than 45 seconds. I hate myself for drinking away the pain into a numbness. I hate myself for hating my wife. I hate myself for not caring how she’s reacting to all of this. There’s no part of me that does not feel a pure loathing towards myself. I feel empty.

People try to comfort me but getting out of bed is too much work. If Mary trickles in and out I do not notice. If my phone vibrates from a call or a text, I cover my ears.

Maybe she would have lived if I had been there.

I notice in the second week that Mary’s belongings are gone and her wedding ring is on the dining room table. We both knew the baby was the only reason she was still here, I suppose. I wish I could say I miss her.

I wish the world would cease to spin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rather heavy, and the next won't be any different. It's always darkest before the dawn, right?  
> Apologies for the shortness of this one, but I promise the next two (at least) are gonna be longer.


	4. then something broke in me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So we begin The Lying Detective (or so to speak) - Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs: drug use, suicidal ideation +mention, self harm mention

I need to know what to do about John.

I was supposed to keep them safe. Even if that meant just John and the baby. I made a vow.

I broke it.

It comes as no surprise to me when John doesn’t talk to me at all for the next month. I try to go over physically but he’s either not there or won’t answer the door every time.

I shouldn’t expect any different, should I?

—

**_typing…_ **

_I want to help you bu_

**_typing…_ **

_Please let me help I know you probably blam_

**_typing…_ **

_I know Mary’s gone I know you’re alone please let me be ther_

**_SENT /_ ** _11:48 PM_

I have tea and the latest James Bond film that you said you liked.

**_typing…_ **

_Just give me a sign that you’re okay_

 

I’m not sure why I’m trying.

—

Exactly one month after John lost his child and Mary managed to escape our trap is when I decide to bring cocaine back into my bloodstream. I pretend those events are unrelated.

It’s warm and safe. My empty, dark flat dances with life. I feel like everything is floating around me and my brain is finally calm.

It makes the need for dying relax a bit. Makes the internal screams of wanting to make it all stop a bit softer.

Time ceases to exist. Eventually, I’m in a car. Some time after that I’m in Mycroft’s office. The chair’s leather is too smooth and feels like a seat of oil on my skin. Mycroft stares at me. His voice pierces through my skull.

“Sherlock.” Ooh, he’s disappointed in me, I see. Big shocker, this one.

“Come to scold me again, big brother?” My words lack the bite I want them to have. It’s okay, though. Don’t care about anything like this, do I?

“For some reason it only takes you one month to break down again entirely when it comes to John Watson. Didn’t you promise him you would stop?” Guilt-tripping, now, I see.

“John doesn’t have to know, though, does he? Doesn’t care enough to answer my texts. Doesn’t want me.” I hate the words as they come out of my mouth.

“You can’t carry on like this, little brother. Sentiment gets the better of you yet again.” Know-it-all big brother Mycroft’s voice gets more authoritative.

“It’s.” Forgot what I was going to say. Oh! Right. “For a case. It’s for a case.”

Mycroft _laughs_ at me. “You think anyone believes that?”

“Has to be for a case. Moriarty! It’s Moriarty’s fault.” That usually gets him to shut up when I’m sober, right?

He sighs. “Sherlock, I might as well tell you now so _this,”_ he gestures to the general image of High Me, “doesn’t get any worse.”

I turn my head to the side, what’s he? “Tell me what?”

He looks away from me and swallows, he doesn’t want to tell me but he has to. “The woman you know as Mary Morstan was never pregnant.”

Daggers. Thousands of daggers manage to break my skin while not existing at all. Pain covers my body like a disgusting blanket. It’s a cancer. I can’t breathe.

 _how do i tell john am i supposed to even tell him what do i say what am i supposed to_ **_do_ ** _why was i so stupid why didn’t i deduce it why am i such an idiot fuckfuckfuckfukcfuckfuck_

“Why didn’t I know? Why didn’t I. See?” Anger now. Pure red hot rage. I feel fire behind my eyes.

“She paid off the hospital staff to lie to John so he wouldn’t know she had faked the entirety of her gestation period. She has practised infidelity in her marriage, as well. In his immense grief, he managed to let her slip away. We have eyes on her, but there’s not much we can—”

“Don’t blame this on him.” Disgusting.

“I’m not _blaming_ anyone, Sherlock. These are the facts as they exist.”

“I don’t care about the fucking facts, this ISN’T JOHN’S FAULT!”

Mycroft looks at the floor then back to me. Methodical. Doesn’t care about John. Disgusting. Horrible. “No, it isn’t. But you must understand that John may very well be in danger now that she’s escaped. I gather you know of her connections to Moriarty.”

“Obviously.”

“You’ve decided not to tell John of this?”

“If you hadn’t noticed, he won’t really _let me.”_

“I recommend you keep it that way.”

“ _Why?”_

“Purely for his own safety.” He’s _lying._ Too high to figure out which part though. Dammit.

“Why did you bring me here right now?”

“You can’t keep doing this, Sherlock. John may not come back. You have work to do.”

Let a scoff escape my lips. Of course. “You only want me sober for my _utility.”_

My brother is silent. Don’t know for how long.

“Take me home, Mycroft.”

He doesn’t object.

It’s fine.

—

**_typing…_ **

_I want to tell you_

**_typing…_ **

_He said you won’t be safe if I don’t_

**_typing…_ **

_I’m not stupid enough not to believe him_

**_typing…_ **

_Why won’t you just come hom_

**_typing…_ **

_I miss y_

**_typing…_ **

_God damnit_

**_typing...._ **

_I’m sorry_

 

I throw my phone across the room and shove my face into my bed. I’ll need to take another hit in 20 minutes.

I haven’t seen John in a month.

I don’t work.

It’s fine.

—

I don’t work until I do, I suppose. There’s a knock on my door after two weeks. I know the flat looks like a drug den. I don’t really care if I’m honest. But there’s a knock on my door. Client. No one else minds to knock anymore.

She sits down and tells me her name is Faith Smith. I’m not too far gone to not be here right now. Still here in my flat. Still hear her words. Sometimes I’m not here at all.

“I saw my father kill someone, Mr. Holmes,” Faith says. Oh. Interesting. “I know I saw it but, I can’t remember where or who or when.”

“When did you know?” Flashbacks caused this, I imagine. My hand is shaking. I watch it. I wait for an answer.

“I started getting nightmares about 6 months ago. Sometimes I’m a child, other times I’m 18, other times I’m my age now. I don’t know if that means anything, Mr. Holmes.”

“Hm. It might.” I realize she handed me her phone to show me a picture of her father. She’s at least 5 years younger in the picture.

“Well, you’ve changed. You no longer top up your tan and your roots are showing.” Don’t know why that’s relevant. Got to be. Maybe not. “Letting yourself go?” Ooooh. I answer my own questions with 20 second latency.

“Do you ever look in the mirror and want to see someone else?” she asks, as if she knows my answer must be yes. She’s not allowed to know that. _Nobody_ knows that.

“No,” I deflect. “Do you own an American car?” Don’t know why I asked _that._ Jesus.

“I’m sorry?” Just as confused as I am, Faith. Promise. _Won’t tell you that though._

“No, not American; left-hand drive, that’s what I mean.”

“No. W-why do you ask that?” I’m starting to feel like J— _shut up._

“Not sure, actually,” I shrug, have to seem like I don’t care. “Probably just noticed something.” I notice there’s _something_ on the bottom of the skirt of her dress. Not sure what that is. Probably figure it out in a second. Hand is shaking again. I bring it up to the level of my face and watch it. _Stop it, you idiot._ Clench my first. I pretend not to notice her scowl at me. I realize I’m holding a piece of paper she handed to me with words she remembers on it. I sniff it. Garlic. _Weird._

“Oh, of _course_ you don’t own a car. You don’t _need_ one, do you, living in isolation, no human contact, no visitors.” Interesting.

“Okay, how do you know that?”

“It’s all here, isn’t it? Look.” I stand and show her the paper. It has to be, right?

I turn toward the window and look down on the street to look for something. There’s nothing. People. It’s cold outside. March chill. There’s a couple walking on the pavement hand-in-hand and I try to pretend it doesn’t make my chest cave in. I turn back to her and shake my head. _What am I doing?_

“Hang on a minute… I was looking out of the window. Why was I doing that?” Thoughts escaped again. _Be careful, idiot._

“I don’t know.”

“Me either. Must have had a reason.” Shake my head again. Clear my thoughts. Doesn’t work. “It’ll come back to me.” Bite the paper now. Hm. “You ended your relationship recently.”

She scoffs. I would too. “You can’t know that!”

I show her the paper again, “There, see, it’s obvious isn’t it?”

“You can’t tell things like that from a piece of paper.”

“Think I just did, didn’t I?” Fake it ‘till you make it’ is  a saying, right? “I’m sure that was me.”

“How?”

“Dunno. Just sort of, happens really. It’s… like a reflex. I can’t stop it.” I notice her shoulders are damp. “Coat.”

“I don’t have a coat,” she’s clearly annoyed with me. Reasonable. Try to push her away. Walk to the kitchen.

“Yeah, that’s what I just noticed. I wonder why?”

She sighs. Fair enough. “So what do you think?”

“Of what?”

“My case.”

“Oh, it’s way too weird for me,” _too hard for me._ “Go to the police; they’re really excellent at dealing with this complicated sort of stuff. Tell them I sent you; that ought to get a reaction.” Giving up, then, aren’t I? “Night-night.” It’s fine.

I pick up her handbag from ~~John’s~~ the other chair and notice it’s too heavy. Something’s in there. Something shouldn’t be in there. Don’t know what. Shit. I throw it for her to catch. I want to go back to bed and pretend this never happened.

“You’re my last hope,” she begs me.

“Really? That’s bad luck, isn’t it? Goodnight. Go away. I need a cup of tea,” I turn to the kitchen. She walks away, I guess.

I’m unsure what needles are for my testosterone and what’s for the cocaine and I’ve truly stopped caring, but a mug with a couple syringes in it to prep them for? One of the two? Can’t remember if I took my prescription this week. Funny that I still care.

 _Shit._ “Handbag.” _SHIT_ . “HANDBAG!” I turn back around and she’s gone and I run downstairs. “Stop! Wait!” I can’t let her get away she can’t possibly get away _pleasepleasepleaseplease_. “Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it, do you hear me?!”

“Sorry? What? What are you talking about?” How can she not _get_ it?

“Your skirt.”

“My skirt?”

“Look at the hem of it! That’s what I noticed. I’m... still catching up with my brain. It’s terribly fast. Those markings, do you see them? You only get marks like that by trapping the hem of your skirt in a car door but they’re on the left-hand side, so you weren’t driving; you were in the passenger seat.”

“I came in a taxi.” Liar.

“There _is_ no taxi waiting in the street outside. That’s what I checked when I went to the window. And you’ve got all the way to the door and not made any move to phone for one, and _look_ at you. You didn’t even bring a coat, in this rain? Now, well, that might mean nothing, except for the angle of the scars on your left forearm; you know, under that sleeve that you keep pulling down.” Ooohhhhh.

“Y-you never saw them,” she defends, pulling her sleeve down yet again.

“No, I didn’t, so thank you for confirming my hypothesis. Don’t really need to check that the angle’s consistent with self-harm, do I?” _It’s okay, I have them too,_ is what I don’t say. “You can keep your scars, I want to see your handbag.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s too heavy. You said I was your last hope and now you’re going out into the night with no plan on how you’re getting home... and a gun.” I see her cane. _Oh, God._

John, _not now John, 5 years ago John,_ flashes into my mind with his cane and his limp and his scars and his gun and _fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfukcfuckfuck._ Shake my head again. Make it _go away,_ make it stop make it all stop John’s not here he won’t be here _stop._

I realise Faith is still standing in front of me in this hallway. This same hallway where we— _STOP._

“Chips,” I blurt out.

“Chips?”

“You’re suicidal. You’re allowed chips, trust me. It’s about the only perk.” I wish it was a joke.

We go and get chips. I realise at the end of our long walk around central London that her father, the famous Culverton Smith, must have killed _more than one_ person and Faith must have caught him but was drugged to forget it. _Of course._

I explain that she kept the paper out in her kitchen but used to keep it folded and she had an unhealthy relationship she recently left.

It was the first nice evening I’d had in some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise you, Eurus does not exist.


	5. but even closer to you, you seem so very far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lying Detective Pt. 2 - John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW's: suicide ideation + mention, alcoholism, drug use

I manage to force my body to go to work and occasionally get the shopping (often consisting of alcohol and bread, but it’s something), and little else.

I can’t think about Sherlock, I can’t answer his texts or emails. I can’t look at pictures of him without feeling guilt swirl through me like a vicious ooze. I haven’t gotten to the point where I’m really able to understand why that is, but it just is. The guilt leads to anger. The anger makes me want to punch something or drink more or both. I pretend this is okay.

 

**_typing…_ **

_I want you here but I hate that I want you here_

**_typing…_ **

_Maybe I hate that I’m incapable of actually saying these things out loud even to myself and insist on typing them into my phone but_

**_typing…_ **

_I miss you but I hate myself for missing you more than Mary and I hate that I was sitting with you rather than holding my daughter and that’s not your fault it’s mine but I have to blame someone or else I’ll kill myself and I just hope you’re busy with a case or something and you’re okay but I hate myself for thinking about you so much I hate that I’m writing these unsent texts to you and not her I hate that I’m alone I hate_

**_typing…_ **

_I’m sorry I’m so fucking sorry I’m getting tipsier now and I hope you know how sorry I am for everything but I’m too scared to tell you to your face so I’m sorry for that too_

**_Sherlock /_ ** _11:48 PM_

I have tea and the latest James Bond film that you said you liked.

**_typing…_ **

_Oh g od_

—

The alcohol makes the tears that fall down my face feel like molasses and I think of how my dead daughter might have looked in my arms as I held her if I had the guts to just _go into the room a bit earlier maybe then you could’ve done something maybe then._

I throw back the rest of my glass of whiskey to shock myself out of the thought.

 _“You really should hold back on the drinking, you know,”_ Sherlock’s voice pierces through my mind and makes everything more real. But I know it’s not.

“You do the same thing with the drugs,” I retort. This makes him appear before me like a ghost. He sits on the chair across the way and looks at me.

_“But I’m not real Sherlock. I’m you, John. Your own conscience thinks you should stop.”_

“I thought this,” I rattle the tumbler in my hand, “was supposed to make me _stop..._ thinking about you.”

_“We both know it doesn’t work like that.”_

“Leave me alone.”

_“You’re still wearing your wedding ring.”_

_Oh._ I stare at my left hand in shock for a moment and then throw my wedding ring off my fourth finger. The sound it makes as it hits the floor makes my ears ring.

I look up, and then he’s gone.

—

Sometimes I dream of her. I dream of her running around the park with a daisy tucked behind her ear and she yells, “Daddy, daddy, follow me!” before I catch her up in my arms and raise her up towards the sky. I wake up with a pool of tears on my pillow and curl into myself to make it better.

Sometimes I dream of her being taken from me in the night and I keep trying over and over to get her back but the faceless figure in the dark keeps running faster and _faster and faster._ Then I wake up screaming and shaking violently and try to shove my face far enough into the pillow that maybe my breath will magically stop needing to escape my lungs.

Sometimes I dream of him, though. Innocent things. Holding hands while we walk home from a case. Whispers in an alleyway on a stakeout. Laughing after the adrenaline pumps through us and I kiss him in the foyer. But it goes dark. I start seeing Mary laughing and ridding the world of him and my daughter all in one fell swoop and my room feels bitterly cold when I shudder awake.

Sometimes I do not dream at all. Those are the better nights.

—

I start going on walks. Occasionally I find myself in Regent’s Park, far too close to the flat I still think of as home. I don’t know if I’m going there on purpose or not, I just go.

The birds chirp carelessly and it feels hateful sometimes. As if the world is mocking me with its plethora of life. It’s starting to be spring, and it feels all too cheery.

The park reminds me of my recurring dream of me and her, walking along. It’s horrid and it stings as if the bees buzzing around me began to attack. I know they haven’t. Bees remind me of—

 _“I’m sure I’d be there if you knocked on the door,”_ he says, appearing next to me.

“I don’t want see you,” I deflect.

_“Yes you do.”_

“You’re probably on a case, working out Moriarty’s next _step_ or something. You don’t want to deal with some depressed useless sidekick, I’m sure.”

 _“Ahh,”_ he breathes. _He’s not real, John, he’s not real. “So that’s all you are, then, my sidekick?”_

“Barely been that lately,” I say as a couple walks past me. I pretend their stares don’t bother me.

 _“You really are afraid of what people think, aren’t you?”_ he remarks before fading into the shadow of an elm tree.

Instead of knocking on his door, I walk to the tube station and hardly recall the trip back to my empty house.

—

There are certain days, as time passes, where it almost feels like things are getting better.

After a month I see an article on my phone saying that Sherlock has publicly accused reality show host and philanthropist Culverton Smith of being a serial killer. Like all news articles about Sherlock, I know it will sting. This one, probably more than any other. I scroll past it. A few moments later I see one announcing the death of Smith’s daughter, Faith. Suicide.

Later, I get a knock on my door and a phone call at the same time, both from Mrs. Martha Hudson. It’s surprising how long she’s stayed away, actually. Probably here to demand that she make me tea or something.

I’m still bad but I’m better at pretending around people like Mrs. Hudson or coworkers or people that know how to be sensitive. Even if that sensitivity sometimes makes me want to claw my own eyes out the second it turns into pity.

I open the door and the look on her face tells me this is _not_ about tea.

“John, you have to do something,” she’s begging me. I don’t know what for.

“Hello to you too, Mrs. H. What exactly do I need to _do?”_ Have to sound overly carefree when the circles under my eyes are dark enough to look like the shadow left behind of the daughter I never had and a wife I never loved.

“It’s-it’s Sherlock, John, he’s. He’s too far gone and there’s no one else who could possibly—”

“What are you talking about, ‘too far gone,’ what’s happened?” There’s an anger that fills up my chest to the brim and I hate how selfish the anger is. _How dare he be miserable while I’m busy being miserable? I can’t help him when I’m miserable too._

Oh.

“You have to help him, John.”

“Why didn’t you call Mycroft or Molly or… anyone else?” They’ve gotta be more useful than me at this point.

“They don’t matter, _you_ do.” What?

She tells me she pulled the gun Sherlock was waving around back onto him and handcuffed him into the boot of her car (an Aston Martin? My god) which she proceeded to drive directly to my doorstep. She opens the boot and I see him, curled in on himself and trembling with, fear? drugs? both?

I have to be sure this isn’t another hallucination, another falsity I’ve invented to pretend he’s here when he isn’t. When I see Mrs. Hudson pulling him out of the car, I get the slightest confirmation it's real.

Part of me wants to curl myself around him and tell him everything’s okay and the other part wants to run the opposite direction as far as possible without stopping and never live a life where Sherlock Holmes is a concern of mine. But I know that just means I would stop living a life at all. My brain can’t seem to make up it’s mind so I take a deep breath as he slowly gets himself up and out of his temporary prison.

His eyes meet mine and I swear he’s never looked older in his life. The wear and tear of his years weighs upon him more visibly than ever before.

Reality stops for a moment as I think about what could happen if I tried to hug him right now and the thought morphs into me sitting in the waiting room, about to pass out on his shoulder as my daughter dies in a delivery room. I see red. I feel heat and anger boil within me for reasons I can’t quite explain.

I realise that this appeared to Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock as me storming back into the house without a moment’s notice.

My hands start shaking and I look down at them, incapable to make it all stop. _He’s using again. He’s using again and it’s my fault too everything’s my fault why is everything that happens my fault._

I toss away my thoughts again and open my eyes to see Sherlock stretched across a chair in the living room, glancing up at the ceiling. I wonder if I said anything before I walked back inside, but Mrs. Hudson stands between us on guard, so she must know there’s a hostility. I’m unsure who’s she’s trying to protect.

“What is it this time, then? Just another _case?_ I read about your… public declarations this morning.” The words sting the insides of my mouth.

He looks over at me and his eyes pierce my skin. “I’m not going to be able to beat this one on my own, John.” I haven’t heard him say my name in over a month. My chest feels heavy and painful. _No._ Need to stop prioritising him over other people. Need to take care of this other situation.

“Then maybe you just won’t beat it.” _Maybe you could care about how I’m doing for once._

Mrs. Hudson sighs and Sherlock closes his eyes. “Mrs. Hudson’s right. I’m burning up. I’m at the bottom of the pit and I’m still falling and… I’m _never_ climbing out.”

_How dare he be miserable while I’m busy being miserable?_

I scoff and look away from him. “Have you ever considered I might be a bit _unavailable_ right now?”

“I didn’t choose to come here, but I still need any help you can provide and I know that a distraction could do us both some good.” I hate that he’s right. The anger resurfaces yet again because he’s _right_ but he doesn’t _get it._

“I’m not gonna run along behind you like a loyal dog while you solve yet another petty crime, Sherlock,” I spit. _Oh how I wish I could run along behind you again and not feel like my life is falling apart behind me._

To my surprise, he pleads his case.

“This isn’t about some petty crime. This is quite possibly the worst villain I’ve encountered not so much in skill but in power. He is the most dangerous, the most _despicable_ human being that I have _ever_ encountered,” he’s really trying here. He looks himself up and down, gesturing to the mess of his dressing-gown-over-suit clothing. “ _Look_ at me, John. I’m in hell, I’m a mess. But I promise you, I’m not wrong. Not about him. If the only thing I ever do in this world is drive him out of it, then my life will not have been wasted. But I can’t do it. Not now. Not alone.”

“If you swear to me that you will stop using the second this is over,” I say, letting my genuine concern bubble to the surface finally. Can’t let too much of it shine. Still angry.

He sighs and gives me a resigned nod. I can see his hands begin to tremble again and I know he’s craving another fix.

Time to go meet Culverton Smith.

—

He truly is a repulsive human being, I must admit. Whether or not he’s a serial killer, I’m unsure. He’s unreasonably obsessed with the works of H. H. Holmes, however. The man who created a hotel with the purposes of killing his guests for sport.

Smith takes us into his “favourite room.” The morgue, naturally. He tries to mock me and Sherlock brings up something I have yet to hear today:

“Your daughter,” the word stings even when directed to someone else, “did she shows any signs of being suicidal before it happened?”

Smith sighs and looks down, but the grief seems plastic, forced. Nothing close to what I feel. It makes something red and angry boil in my chest.

“N-no, er, not that I know of. She was always a happy girl, really. Always hardworking and independent. Truly horrible, what’s happened. Got to manage and keep going, though.”

“It’s been a week,” I butt in. “Yet you clearly feel nothing.” He’s revolting.

He looks over at me with a mock look of disdain across his face, “And who are you to judge my stages of grief, _Doctor_ Watson?” He says my title like he questions if I deserve it. _I hate him._

Sherlock responds, almost to prevent me from punching the man, “So… no signs of depression or suicidal thoughts whatsoever?”

Smith grins and turns back to face him, “No.”

A silence ruminates for a moment as we all stand in a triangle in this horrific mortuary. I’m ready to say more when Sherlock keels over beside me spontaneously, falling to the floor with a thud. His body starts to shake slightly.

“Sherlock!” I shout, crouching down to meet him and place a hand delicately on his shoulder. I turn back to Culverton Smith. “Get him a bloody nurse and a room, now,” I demand and the man just nods, turns, and grabs a nurse from outside.

Sherlock’s admitted to Saint Caedwalla’s Hospital. I sit by his bedside for the second time since the new year.


	6. there it is again, sitting on my chest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lying Detective Pt. 3 - Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs: attempted murder/suffocation

Hospital rooms have become a common place for John and I to end up, it seems. Always me hooked up to an IV and him slouching over a stiff chair beside me.

I wonder when we’ll be freed from the agony of hospitals.

My eyes shutter open and he’s there, by my side. My heart may burst with the pure joy that he’s still here.

“Hey,” he speaks softly and holds my arm. His fingers leave indents in my skin. “You okay?” _Now that you’re touching me._

I realise speech is difficult when I attempt to respond, but sound won’t emerge from my lips. I submit to a nod and he gives me a small smile.

“You scared me earlier.” His voice is small and his eyes fix on the hand placed on my arm.

My voice returns to me and I push out a hushed reply, “Sorry.”

He moves his hand off me (cold. _put it back)_ and twiddles his thumbs. “Well, er, now that you’re awake I should, erm, I should probably go home.” _No. Nononononono._ I so desperately don’t want him to leave my sight.

 _Don’t be so selfish, Sherlock._ He’s just dealt with something traumatic. Probably didn’t want to see me in the first place; why would I ask him to stay with me? Plus, I know Smith will have to confront me eventually. I give a nod and mumble, “You need your rest.” Don’t worry him, he’s got enough on his plate. It’ll probably be fine anyway, _you were too high to know this for sure._

John looks at me and I see (what must be a false) tenderness in his eyes for a split second before he stoically dips his head and says, “I’ll text you, okay? Call me if you need anything.”

And then he’s gone. I notice just how large this room feels without him.

—

It takes exactly 38 minutes before I notice the wall opposite me slowly edge open, revealing Culverton Smith.

“Secret door,” I say, understanding his methods now.

“I built this whole wing. Kept firing the architect and builders so no one knew quite how it all fitted together. I can slip in and out anywhere I like, you know... when I get the urge.” _Oh._

“H. H. Holmes,” I recall from our earlier exchange.

“Murder castle, but done right. I have a question for you. Why are you here? It’s like you walked into my den and laid down in front of me.” His vocal quality is not unlike a snake.

“You know why I’m here.”

He inches closer to my bed and I try not to flinch, “I’d like to hear you say it.”

I try to bring strength to my voice despite my exhaustion, “Moriarty.”

Smith freezes in place and furrows his brow. After a moment, he begins to laugh. A full, hearty chuckle spreads over the room like a cancer. “Ah yes, of _course._ Jim does love playing games with Sherlock Holmes.”

“After Magnussen died, you were his next choice for a well-off crooked media presence that could ruin the lives of anyone they needed to. I would say it’s brilliant, but it’s really quite simple.” He sits himself down in a chair a good _(nothing about this man is good)_ few feet away from me.

“Jim and I were working together long before Magnussen ever bit the dust,” he says. I knew, but he doesn’t need to know that. “H. H. Holmes. He heard of my little murder castle and instantly wanted to engage in business together. He loves innovative ideas, truly. He’s a scientist at heart, Mr. Holmes. Much like yourself.” The words sting.

“But you’re not the end of his plans for me, I’m sure. You _can’t_ be,” I spew the words his direction. Insult his art.

“What exactly do you mean by that?” I’ve clearly upset him.

“Well you’re not _clever_ enough to be his right hand. You’ve just got money. You can’t keep your mouth shut, clearly based off all that you told to John and I in the mortuary. Moriarty never works with sloppy people too close to the vest. _No,_ he uses you as props.”

“If I’m so sloppy, why have I not been caught?” He knows the answer.

“For the same reason anyone with the net worth you have gets away with anything. With enough money, you really can do whatever you'd like,” I explain because I must. Play the game.

“Even the murder of my daughter?” Ooh, his confession comes rather easy.

—

_“John?”_

_“Yeah, Sherlock, what is it?” He responds through the phone._

_“I need you to do something for me.”_

_“What is it?”_

_“Smith is going to come into this room in no less than five minutes and I need you to stay on the phone with me while it happens.”_

_“Wh-what?! Sherlock, Jesus, no. I’m coming down ther—”_

_“No! No. John, if you care about me_ at all, _please stay away. Just… stay on the phone. Mute your microphone. Just stay on the phone. Please. You’re allowed to come only when I give you a signal, alright?”_

_“O-okay. Okay.”_

_—_

“Especially then, yes.” I force a grin across my face.

“Faith had precisely what was coming to her, Mr. Holmes. She wasn’t long for this world as it was, anyway, was she? But you know that already.” _Shit._

“You know.”

“Course I do. Your brother has eyes around this entire city, so I’m sure Jim can manage having eyes inside Baker Street,” he says it with a nonchalance that cuts through the air.

I shake my head with only a slight disbelief. “He’s done it before, why wouldn’t he do it again?” I hesitate for a moment, considering the man I have on the phone tucked under my thigh on this hospital bed. “So he truly is alive, then?”

“He hasn’t finished the job, has he?”

“What… _job?”_

“I believe he said something like he ‘owed you.’ Sound familiar?” The casual way he spouts those words makes panic rise throughout my body.

I try to blink the thoughts away enough to respond, “W-why are you telling me all this?”

“You see, Mr. Holmes, I have a need to confess. Part of Jim and I’s business arrangement is that he needs people killed and I need to confess to those who can stay quiet.” _Interesting._

“And what makes you think I can stay quiet?” I’m terrified of the answer.

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? The dead can’t speak, Sherlock.” Never in my life has hearing my name made my ears ring.

“Quite,” I whisper. I know that this cannot be the end. I know he is not supposed to actually kill me. I know that Moriarty has planned every moment of this exchange, but I have to play the game to complete the puzzle. 

Culverton Smith gets up from his seat and makes his way closer to me. He takes a pair of latex gloves and begins to put them on. “Let’s be honest, you knew exactly what you were walking into the moment you corresponded with dear Faith. You fell right into my trap. Almost on _purpose._ ”

“Anything for the,” I pause to see him get even closer to the side of my bed. “Game.” I finish feebly.

“Indeed. This game is on, as you say. Tell me, Sherlock, do you _want_ to die?” He starts rolling up his shirt sleeves.

“N-no.”

“Good,” he begins rolling up the other sleeve. “Say that for me. Say it.”

“I don’t want to die,” I say, the humiliation rising in me.

“... And again,” he stands over me, mocking my very existence.

“I… don’t want to die,” my voice cracks.

“Once more, for luck.”

“I don’t want to die I—” he somehow manages to get even closer. A tear begins to fall down my cheek. “don’t want to die.”

“Lovely. So tell me: why are we doing this? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I wanted to hear your confession; needed to know I was right,” I say softly, full of fear. “The mortuary; your ‘favourite room.’ You talk to the dead. You make your confession to them. Why do you do it?”

“Why do I kill?” I swear I can see a grin form across his face; oh how desperately he wants to tell me. “It’s-It’s not about hatred or,-or revenge. I’m not a dark person. It’s... killing human beings… it just makes me... incredibly happy.” I feel as if I may vomit.

He tells me he likes how dead people are like things. He likes turning them into _things._ He wants to turn me into a thing. _He’s made his confession, Sherlock, you can give John the signal now._ I somehow am unable to move.

“You know what?” He says suddenly, shredding me away from my own thoughts. “I’m getting a little impatient.” He lowers my bed so I’m lying horizontally and looms above me. “Take a big breath, if you want.” And he begins to smother me.

Smith’s gloved hands feel cold and horrid against my nose and mouth. I can feel his hand smear my tear tracks across my face as he rips life away from me.

I hope that John knew what to listen for. I hope that John comes to help. I hope so desperately that John is smarter than me in this moment and is somehow coming to save me like he always does.

_If I die, know that I’m sorry. If I die, know that for the last five years I have not spent one moment thinking of anything other than you. If I die, John, know that’s it’s always you. It’s always been you. If I die, know that I lov—_

The door to my hospital room bursts open at that moment and John Watson is holding a fire extinguisher and I wonder how I could have expected anything else. John pulls Smith off of me with undeniable force and pins him in a headlock. Lestrade is behind him.

“What were you doing to him?!” he demands. “What were you doing?!?” Before Culverton could feasibly respond, John shoves him towards Lestrade. “Restrain him, now.”

“I was trying to help him!” Smith lies.

“Sherlock,” he’s short for breath as he walks toward me, “Sherlock, are you alright?”

“No, no not really. I’ve just been suffocated after a week long cocaine binge. A bit short from alright. But I got my confession, didn’t I?”

“I didn’t confess anything!” Smith protests. “What would I be confessing to?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry about that, _Mr. Smith,”_ John spits. I’ve never seen him so angry. “Got it all on phone records.” He waves his phone that’s still on call with mine in front of him. _My knight in shining armour._

—

They arrest Smith. Apparently, he can’t stop confessing. I know that this is exactly what Moriarty planned. I know that there’s nothing more I can do then play his game now and just anticipate the next move. I know Mary’s coming soon.

—

John takes me back to Baker Street and we sit in silence drinking tea (well, I drink tea and John nurses a finger of whiskey. I don’t mention that’s it’s only the late afternoon and that this is entirely inappropriate. We don’t really make a habit of worrying about appropriate.) for much longer than we should. The weight of unspoken words sits upon my shoulders.

Finally,

“Sherlock, I—” he pauses and takes a breath. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for… ignoring you… like that,” he hardly manages to get the words out.

“You don’t need to apologise, John,” I look down at my hands.

“N-no, I do. I shouldn’t have shut you out. You didn’t… you didn’t do anything wrong.” _No, but I’m doing something wrong by not telling you the truth._

“You’re allowed to shut out whoever you’d like,” I reply timidly.

John sets his tumbler down with more force than necessary, “Just. Let me do this.” He grits through his teeth and I recede. “We need to finally discuss _something.”_

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. “Okay.”

“I’ve been out of the house more in the last 24 hours than I have been in the last month. I hadn’t gone more than 6 hours without a drink until you pulled me out on this case yesterday so. I should thank you. I didn’t know I needed a distraction.” Oh. “So I’m sorry, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Can you promise me something? Please?”

“Of course,” _anything for you, John._

“Stop relapsing?” he asks, so delicately.

“I-I don’t know if I can just—” I want to say yes. So badly do I want to say yes, John, but—

“For me, Sherlock. I can’t keep doing this over and over again. I can’t.” His voice is so small. My chest stings. _For me._

“All right. I promise.”

He tries to smile but can’t seem to manage. We don’t want to talk about Moriarty. Not now. I know I need to get another question out of my system. I need to know that he’s okay. I need to be sure.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

He lets out a breath not unlike a laugh. “No. No I’m not. But, it is what it is.”

“Right,” I say. “I-I’m sorry too, John. You didn’t need to deal with… this… after everything.”

“We’re both a bit of a mess, then, aren’t we?” his tone is kind despite his negative words.

“More than a bit, I’d say,” I reply, trying to push it off. We both try to laugh and it falls away after a moment.

I see him stirring, wanting to leave. “You don’t have to stay. You can go home. You’ve had a long day.”

“Yeah, I suppose I should, shouldn’t I?” I try to hide the pain the phrase brings me. He gets up, looking almost lost. Then, he grabs his jacket off the door and his keys out of his pocket. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.” I watch as John walks out the door towards the staircase, when my phone lets out an all too familiar moan. My body tenses. I know he heard it. The floorboards creak beneath him as he makes his way back into the living room.

“What was that?” he inquires, placing his hands on his hips. I’m unsure of what’s coming next.

“Erm,” I can’t seem to think of the right way to address it. _Yes, John, Irene just texted me. No, I’m not going to answer. For some reason, however, that makes it suspicious to you._ Instead, I settle for, “What was what?” _Idiot._

“That noise. From your phone.” Why is he so angry about it? “Well, are you gonna answer it?”

“No,” I reply. “I never respond.”

He looks down at his feet and shakes his head, “Why not?!” John brings his head back up to meet my eyes and has a disbelieving smile across his face. “You bloody moron! She’s out there, she likes you, and she’s _alive._ Do you have _any_ idea how lucky you are?” He really doesn’t get it, does he? “Yes, she’s a lunatic, she’s a criminal, she’s _insanely_ dangerous – trust you to fall for a sociopath… but she’s… y’know.” He says his words staring at the ceiling, almost like they’re not meant for me.

“What?” I let slip out.

“Just, text her back.”

“Why would I ever do that?”

“Didn’t I just tell you? Text her, phone her, just do _something_ because this chance won’t last forever, Sherlock, it’s gone before you know it,” his body stiffens and his voice is a whisper. “Before you know it.”

For a moment words don’t come. We remain still in this quiet room, and I realise that I have to clear the air. “John, I don’t care about her. She texts me every once in a blue moon when something interesting enough happens in my career that she hears about it. She probably just congratulated me on solving this case with Smith. She’s married… to a woman.”

“Then why did you save her?” he demands.

“One last thank you. She didn’t deserve to die, and she played a fun game, but that’s all. Doesn’t matter.” I’m on the heels of telling him everything. Of spilling all the truths I’ve kept hidden away for so long, although I know I can’t. This isn’t about me.

“I just assumed—”

“It’s nothing, really John.”

He sighs and slumps his shoulders, the silence stretches for a long time. It’s uncomfortable and painful, however necessary it may be.

“I didn’t think I wanted to be a father, y’know,” he says with a soft vulnerability that is so easily broken. “I’m used to taking care of people, but having to do it 24/7 wasn’t my idea of how I was going to spend the next 18 years.”

I wait for him to keep going. I know these words aren’t for me specifically. I let him speak when he wishes to.

“I suppose we want what we can’t have, huh?” I swear I can hear the crack behind his voice and my heart breaks. He doesn’t have to say anything more.

I wish I could tell him. I wish I could tell him that all of it is a lie and that Mary tricked him one last time. I wish it was that easy.

After a moment I notice the tears begin to fall down John’s face. His sobs are soft and reserved, but still raw. I let myself get up and set my tea down. I walk over to him slowly, tentatively as he covers his face.

When I reach out to touch him, and my right hand wraps around his shoulder and my left clasps his arm, the foundations shift beneath me.

“It’s okay,” I offer.

“It’s not okay,” he replies, still trying to push back.

“No, but it is what it is.” I let my head rest on his, my hand on his nape. Everything is warm.


	7. and i wanted to go home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Final Problem Pt. 1 - John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs: nightmares

Warmth fills my body. Sherlock’s hand covers my nape. Tears edge their way down my cheeks and onto his chest. The muscles in my shoulder relax under his touch. We’ve never been this close for this long before, and I swear my heart may burst. All I can smell is _him_ , all the aromas that make Sherlock perfect. Slowly, I let my arms wrap around his torso, returning the hug. He inhales a quick breath as I do. Weight returns to my chest as I realise just how long we’ve been standing like this and how each second longer makes this mean more.

Before I can think further, Sherlock’s body is separating from mine and taking tiny steps away from me. The weight in my chest turns painful. He lets one hand remain on my forearm and I wish it would stay forever.

“You know what we should do?” he asks timidly.

“Hm?” I’m not quite ready to speak again with eyes still red and face still damp.

“Go out for chips,” he suggests. If we stay in this flat any longer I’m positive words will fall out of my mouth. I know this is the best thing we can do.

“Sounds good.”

And we go get chips. Brilliant.

—

I let myself see him more. We solve cases sometimes, other times we just watch telly and eat take away. It’s almost like before, but it’s not. After he… _held_ me, there’s been a tension I can’t really explain. He’s more willing to touch me than he was before, but it’s as if the moment he realises that he’s touching me, he has to stop. I don’t know if it means what I want it to. I don’t know if it can.

The thoughts of her in the nursery and walking in the park still sit in my mind throughout everyday.

Sometimes, I go into the surgery and it reminds me of that night just a few months ago. The lights start to burn my eyes and the sounds of medical equipment moving around the hallways makes my ears ring. I have to leave early, stumble over apologies and excuses as I squirm my way out of the office. I go back to the always empty house, and I pour myself a drink.

Sherlock notices (he always does, doesn’t he?) that I’m miserable.

“John,” he starts one day while we sit watching horrid day-time television. “You don’t have to keep working at the surgery if you don’t want to.” He’s trying to be delicate with me. Too delicate. I don’t know why it frustrates me.

“I don’t need you to coddle me because I can’t deal with being in a bloody hospital as a doctor. I’ll be _fine,”_ I lie.

“I just—”

“You don’t have to treat me like a helpless animal, okay?!” I don’t even realise that I raised my voice at him.

His body curves inward, _he’s afraid._ I hate myself for making him afraid. I take a deep breath.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” I try to explain.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” he apologises. _No, I should be the one apologising. Don’t. It’s not._

I shut my eyes and take in another deep breath. I don’t know what else to say right now. I get up and make us more tea to do something with my hands.

—

I get a phone call from Molly one day asking if I want to go out for a cup of coffee, and I say yes. It’s been far too long since I’ve spent time with people that aren’t Mrs. H, Sherlock, or Lestrade.

“John, hello,” she says to me in her delicate tone. She pulls me into a hug.

“Hi,” I reply. “It’s been a bit, hasn’t it?” Molly already has her coffee, and as I wait in the queue to get my own, she stands beside me to talk.

“Yeah, Sherlock usually comes to the lab alone now.” There is an unspoken question behind it, one that I don’t necessarily want to answer, but I know I’ll have to. She’s got at least some agenda in bringing me here today, and I would be frustrated by that if I didn’t think it was absolutely necessary.

I pay for and get my coffee, and we sit at a small table in the cafe. Time to get down to business, then.

“How have you been? After… everything,” she asks. It’s well meaning but sounds like something a therapist would ask and I don’t have an appointment for another 4 days. I readjust in my seat, take a deep, shaky breath, and shallowly sip from my too-hot coffee.

“It’s… it’s been all right, I suppose,” I lie. She gives me a look, telling me she sees through the layers of my own bullshit.

“John…” she lets out a sigh and drops her head.

“Why’d you ask me here today?” I ask the question I know the answer to. She’s here because of him, of course.

“I’d like to think… I’d hope at least, that you consider me a friend. And friends are here for one another, right?” She looks up at me to attempt to get some approval, and continues. “I don’t want to seem like I’m overstepping or something, so tell me if I’m saying more than I should but… I think you move back to 221B.” _Oh._

I’m left without words for a moment. I just kind of look at her. The weird part is that when she says the words out loud it makes so much sense, too much even. Like they were waiting for an eternity to fall out but everyone was too petrified to allow them into reality.

I try to laugh, ultimately letting out a breathy open-mouthed sigh. “Y-yeah. That’s, er, that’s fair enough.” It’s a truth I know I can’t fight.

“I know that things have been difficult for you these last few months, and I know that you and Sherlock both have… have been through a lot. I hope I’m not imposing or anything by—”

I interrupt her with a loud sigh. Then I start laughing. Really, truly laughing this time. I cover my face a bit with my hand and laugh until I can muster a response.

“D’you know what happened at the hospital that night?” I know she will understand, but the fact that “the hospital that night” could mean so many nights brings an ache to my gut.

“N-no, I don’t,” she admits.

“He—Sherlock—brought me a fresh cup of water on the hour, every hour, the entire bloody night,” I say. “I tried to go into the room she was in probably 20 times and each time I ran back and there he was, with a cup of bloody water.” I can’t quite say why I’m telling her this. Thankfully, she seems to know, and she reaches for my hand in the caring way she always manages to do things.

“And afterwards, on the way home, he drove us back to the house in our car and went back to Baker Street,” I keep spilling out this story. I haven’t actually told anyone about this in this way. “And I wanted to go with him.”

I then instantly realise why it is I told Molly Hooper this story. I wanted to go with him.

“Go with him now, John,” she says. We both know precisely what I’m deciding not to say. We both sit in this mostly empty cafe and she, as any good friend would, comforts me to a decision I hadn’t even realized I needed to make.

“What if he doesn’t want me to?” I ask what I’m most afraid of.

“Go with him,” she replies.

We share a hug, leave the coffee shop in opposite directions, and I stare ahead of me. It’s time to go with him.

—

“Sherlock?” I begin. He is sitting in his chair, feet outstretched. I am at the desk, on my laptop.

“Hm?” he answers, distracted by his own thoughts.

“I, er, wanted to ask…” I hesitate.

“Yes, you can move back in, John.” Of course he knows. Why wouldn’t he?

“You’re sure?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” he says plainly. There is a weight to the statement. It fills the room.

“Thank you,” is all I say back.

—

Over the following weeks I sort things out with a realtor and leave most everything inside the flat for other people to deal with. It feels cursed, and it is unquestionably impossible for me to sort through the shit in the nursery without going completely mad.

The only thing I take back to 221B is my clothes, my shampoo, my toothbrush, and the sheet music to the song Sherlock played at my wedding. I take it out of the hateful envelope marked “Dr. and Mrs. Watson,” and place the folded paper into my suitcase of things.

Sherlock silently helps. He gets Mycroft to make sure someone buys the house quickly, to prevent me from stressing any further. He doesn’t tell me he did this, but I see a brief glimpse of a text from his elder brother saying “I’ll get it done,” before I look away from where Sherlock’s phone is on the table. The next day I get a call saying my realtor accepted an offer on the house. My shoulders feel light.

I thank him with a home cooked dinner of potato stir fry that we eat in mostly silence.

“Thank you,” he mumbles while placing his bowl in the sink. He turns away as the words spill out of his mouth and escapes to his room before I can express my gratitude back.

—

We’re at a crime scene for a particularly unexciting  case, Sherlock explaining principle to Lestrade. Most of it goes over my head, but I listen to what I can.

I’m shocked back into the moment when I feel his hand on my back.

“John?” he asks, making sure I’m still mentally here.

“S-sorry, yeah.” He lets his hand fall and my body stills.

He sorts things out with Lestrade and says we should be heading home. _Home._ I’m still not used to that phrase. It feels electric. Before I know it, his hand is where it was moments ago, leading me to a cab.

We sit in silence, ultimately sitting nearer to one another than usual. His hand rests between us, tapping against the leather, and I stare at it for most of the ride back _home,_ back to Baker Street.

It almost feels like something. I shake the idea out of my mind as best as I can, trying to fall asleep in my upstairs bedroom. But, the muscle memory of his hand on my upper back and his comforting way of speaking my name resonate through me.

—

_“Daddy!!” I hear her call out to me but I can’t see her. Her voice echoes through this empty waiting room in an all too familiar hospital. Then he’s next to me with his dark coat and hair contrasting the beige surrounding us. He frowns at me, but says nothing._

_Then I hear the screaming. It’s not Mary, it’s a young girl. It’s_ her. _I’m running to find her, to reach the source so I can stop the screaming that radiates through my skull. I reach the room._

_No one is inside except her. A small basket sits on the floor of this entirely empty hospital room and I look inside. She sleeps silently now, the screaming ceased. I try to reach down and pick her up, but she vanishes in thin air. I begin to shake. I turn around to open the door and rather than the dimmed hallway of the hospital, I find myself outside now. I know instantaneously what I’m about to see. He stands up atop the roof of Bart’s like he has multiple times in my mind and one too many outside the world of sleep._

_I try to run to him, but my body can’t move. I try to scream, but my mouth won’t open. He falls, like he always does, and there’s no strength in my muscles to hold me up._

I wake in a cold sweat, hands clammy and sheets mussed at the foot of the bed. I hear the faint sound of his violin. I haven’t heard him play since my wedding, and I notice my cheeks are wet. I try to fall back asleep and his playing manages to ease the thoughts circulating in my brain.

—

“I turned in my 2 weeks to the GP office,” I say over breakfast one morning. He looks up at me and his face is soft, not quite hardened with the weight of the day.

“Good?” he clarifies.

I nod slowly, “Yeah, good. I’m-I’m sorry about… what I said before, Sherlock.”

He gives me a puzzled expression like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about and I hate it. “It’s all right, John,” he says finally. His voice is calm and quiet; careful. He’s being careful with me.

I look at him for a long moment, then clear my throat to speak. “Why are you letting me be cruel to you?”

The question visibly takes him by surprise. I’m sure he expected me to leave it, eat my toast with marmite, and move along with my morning. I’m sure he expected me to do what’s always expected. But I can’t keep tiptoeing like this.

“I-I, erm,” he takes a deep breath. “I don’t know how else to help you.” _Oh my god._

“Why would it be helpful for me to be cross with you about meaningless things?” _Why do you think it’s okay for me to hurt you?_

“I’m not sure what else to do, John.”

“You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me, Sherlock,” I say gently. I let this bout of bravery overcome me and I reach out to touch his hand across the table. Just slightly. Not enough to suggest too much. His body stills, and he looks down.

I sigh and leave my hand where it is. We sit in a dense, foggy silence.

“Thank you for the other night,” I break through the empty air with a hammer. “I haven’t heard you play since…”

He finally looks back up at me with pleading eyes. “It was nothing.” His words don’t match his face.

My hand is still just barely covering his as we look at each other for a long while. I could easily strengthen my hold and pull him in to kiss me, but I can’t make myself. Not yet. There’s too much here between us. There’s still Moriarty. Maybe he’s watching us right now.

Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson is walking up the stairs and tapping at our kitchen door in time for me to pull away.

—

It’s well past midnight when we’re giggling and this time I actually haven’t had anything to drink. Just the mix of late night tea and post-case adrenaline which leaves us gasping for air between giggles on the sofa.

“His face when Lestrade arrested him,” he says in a high-pitched squeal. (A word that, although he isn’t fond of, is incredibly fitting.)

I draw in a breath to ground myself after our short laughing fit and glance at him. He meets my eyes, and the room seems to pause along with us.

“Could you play for me?” I say, looking away and towards the violin case placed haphazardly on the desk. He says nothing and stands, making his way over to it. No sheet music, no nothing. He just looks back at me and plays from memory.

Eventually I feel a heaviness come over my eyelids from our last adventure, as he continues to play for me. I lean back on the couch, sinking into the throw pillows, and begin to doze. The sound of his classical drawl leading me into a calm rest.

Some time later I feel a blanket cover me and there’s a feeling of warmth radiating through my chest. Not pain, this time.

—

I’m walking back home after my last day as a GP, feeling better than I have in months. I’m finally free of that horrific place and everything that is inevitably attached to it.

On the way someone passes me, a bit too close. I only have a second to consider the bonfire incident this reminds me of before there’s chloroform in my face and I’m on the ground struggling to move.

I can’t see who did it. I can’t manage to keep my eyes open. The last thing I think of before my vision goes black is wishing for Sherlock to come find me.

He has to this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i'm starting to get the appeal of cliffhangers.


	8. now i'm reaching out with every note i sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Final Problem Pt. 2 - Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this chapter took a bit longer to come out!! I wanted to make it as good as it could be, so I ended up re-writing this chapter twice. I hope the wait was worth it, though.

I find John at the pool after a trail of clues left by Moriarty. It takes me a  surprisingly short amount of time, only 4 hours, and I find John alone. Conversations and apologies insue before we’re interrupted by Moriarty and Mary, side by side. John finds out all that he must. That the baby never existed, that she’s worked for Jim all along. We never do find out her real name. It’s all so simple in the end.

John tries to attack Mary from his own sheer rage, and she shoots him in the thigh to debilitate him. There’s a blur of me shooting Mary in the heart and me throwing John the gun when he tells me to do so. He’s limping and in pain, but it’s not enough to stop him from shooting James Moriarty in the skull, for real this time, and kicking him with his good leg into the depths of the pool.

It’s satisfying and relieving only for a moment until we’re both on the floor and John’s blood is on my hands. He’s been in danger too many times in one day. My body goes into overdrive and I have to remind myself to breathe. _You can’t die of asphyxiation right now when John might die of blood loss. John might die. John is in danger. John is in danger. John is_

“John,” I mumble close to him. Just saying his name is enough to ground me. I place my hand on his shoulder. “John, what do I do?”

“Put pressure on it. As much as possible, don’t worry about hurting me.” Oh, John, if only I could manage not to worry about you. He sounds soldier-like, as always. Despite the strength in his words, his face is losing colour and I feel tears well up behind my eyes. “Hey, hey,” he says, grabbing my other arm. “I’ll be fine, all right? Just call the ambulance, we’ll be okay.”

I scramble for my mobile and quickly dial 999 whilst keeping pressure on John’s leg wound. I half-scream the address and severity of the situation through the receiver, and the moment the man says the ambulance is en route, I instantly hang up and send a text to Lestrade:

 **_SENT /_ ** _10:42_

John’s been shot. Moriarty and Mary are dead. Pool from last time. Explain later. Please come.

I toss my phone aside and look back at John.

“You’re getting paler,” I say. My heart is racing, and when he looks back at me with a broken smile the tears start and don’t stop.

“Sherlock, it’s alright, I’ll be okay, I promise. You’re under advisement from a doctor, remember?” He’s trying to reassure _me_ in this situation. How ridiculous.

“Please,” I whisper and shut my eyes for a moment before forcing myself to open them again. I keep all my focus on him and making sure he makes it to the hospital without bleeding out.

He slowly moves his hand up to cover my arm and keeps his grip on me. We look at one another for a long moment, and then the doors are opening and the EMT’s and Lestrade are coming towards us.

They see Mary dead on the floor and Moriarty dead in the pool first; utterly shocked.

“Leave them!” Lestrade bellows.

“But, sir,” one of the EMT’s tries.

“Listen to me. One of those dead people is a trained assassin who shot the man on the floor,” he points at John. “And the other is a psychopathic serial murderer. So _please,_ for the love of God, look at the man actually still with us in this world first.” The medic nods willingly in response and heads over to me and John.

Lestrade makes his way over to us as well, still giving enough distance for them to get to John. I let my grip of him drop as they decide to lift him onto a gurney. I follow them at an almost running speed to the ambulance.

“You’ll be all right, John, everything’s all right,” I promise him.

“I know,” he answers, seeing that all I was doing was comforting myself.

We reach the ambulance and I demand to go with him. Before they have the ability to object,

“Let him,” Lestrade confirms. They resign and agree, ushering me inside. I silently thank him. “Sherlock, I’ll follow behind and meet you there, okay?” I nod and sit beside John on the way to hospital once again.

—

They’re wrapping up his wound on his thigh next to me. He’s sitting up now, most of the colour returned to his face. He looks over to me and gives me a small smile. I return it. _Thank God he’s okay._

By the time they finish everything and send us home, it’s well past midnight. Lestrade offers to drive us, and we’re both so exhausted that I hardly process the ride at all.

John lumbers up the stairs ahead of me (I wanted to keep an eye on him so he doesn’t fall) and we trickle into our flat.

“I’m completely knackered after all that,” he says, putting up his jacket in the dark.

“You’re not going to want to climb up another flight of stairs, I imagine, with…” I lazily gesture to the wound in his thigh that’s brought me far more trouble than it’s worth.

“It’s no problem, Sherlock, really,” he excuses, playing down the pain I see lining his face.

“No, I’m not gonna force you to go up there and possibly make the wound worse,” I object.

“What do you suggest?”

“Take my bed, I’ll sleep on the sofa,” I offer. “It’ll be easier for both of us since I have to redress that in a couple hours anyway. Plus, I’m physically fine, and I’ve slept there enough. I have nicer sheets than you, anyway.”

He lets out an airy chuckle and grins. “Thank you,” he says, looking at me in the eye. It’s not about the bed, but it has to be for now. He pauses for a minute before, “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”

I don’t sleep much, only when my body gives in and I have to. I change John’s dressings twice. My mind races to think of what might be possible now that the cause behind 5 years of torment is gone.

—

We try to go back to normal for the next week. Normal all except for the fact that John sleeps in my bed for three days and I kip on the sofa. The illusion of routine is shattered when I hear John screaming and panting on his first night back in his upstairs room.

I was in the kitchen, setting up an experiment and I hear him.

Rather than what I usually do (play my violin and lull him back to a calm state, like always), something in my brain tells me to go upstairs and check on him. I know that what’s pulling me there is the fear I felt 7 days ago when a bullet entered his thigh. I listen to the instinct and gently climb the staircase.

I crack open John’s bedroom door and it’s the first time in all our years together that I’ve seen him in a fit of a nightmare. Before, the only sense I allowed was my ears, but now my eyes have seen all the additional parts that my hearing missed. He’s kicked the blankets away from him and his breathing is laboured.

I stand there almost long enough for this to seem odd, so I open the door just a bit more to make my way inside. I don’t quite make it to his bed when,

“Sherlo…” he mumbles. For a moment I think he might be awake and know I’m here, but he starts wrestling around again and whimpering quietly. That means—Oh.

I sit on the side of his bed delicately and initially just attempt to call for him.

“John,” I speak softly. He doesn’t respond. “John, wake up,” I say in a fuller tone. It’s not working.

He’s turned away from me, towards the window. I see his face lit by moonlight and reach out to shake his shoulder.

“It’s just a dream, John. It’s all right,” I comfort to the best of my ability.

After another minute, his breathing slows and his eyes shutter open. It takes John a moment to see me.

“Are you okay?” I ask through the darkness.

John looks at me and slowly shakes his head— _no—_ and it’s only then that I notice the tear tracks imprinted on his cheeks. We are still briefly before he decides to speak:

“Are you?” And it hits something deep inside my chest.

“No,” is all I say. Then he’s sitting up and looking at me. “What do you need?”

I know what I wish he would say, and I know what I expect from him. Time seems to stop as I wait for which one it will be.

“You,” John says in a weak, ragged-with-sleep voice. My eyes widen and I can’t seem to think of what to do. The word is so painfully simple and yet so heavy with years of yearning. I’m unsure if he even means in the way that I think he does. Perhaps I’m jumping to conclusions, perhaps this is more complicated than just that three letter word.

But what if it’s not?

John inches his hand towards mine and decides to covers just my fingers with his own. Much like the conversation we had a few weeks back in the kitchen. The rest of the room is chilled, but his hand is warm and welcoming.

I realise that I haven’t said anything.

“John,” I push out, 70% air, 30% the actual word. “Are you… sure?” It’s merely a whisper.

“The danger’s gone now, isn’t it? Just in our ruddy dreams now,” For once in our entire acquaintance, it’s true. I nod to him and finally meet his eyes. They are already planted on me.

“D-do you mean…?” I can’t assume. I can’t risk it.

He sighs breathily and says, “Let’s sleep for now and talk about the rest when we wake up, okay?”

I dip my head and agree before I notice the vague nature of the phrase, and how he’s pulling the blankets back up and moving over to the far side of the mattress. _Oh._

“Y-you want me to…” Finishing the sentence seems truly impossible.

“If you’d like,” he speaks with a certain ease I have yet to find.

We’ve silently crossed a precipice into something else that is only somewhat clear to me. I allow myself to rest closer to the middle than to the side, and John follows suit. We’re not touching, but it’s a near thing. I’m tentative to turn my head to look at him, feeling his eyes on me. But his presence beside me calms something deep I have yet to recognise. Before John doses off completely, he mumbles:

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” once more.

“Goodnight, John,” again.

—

The next morning I wake up and notice I haven’t slept so soundly in a long time. I, almost instinctively, check beside me to see that John is gone. My initial thought is that he ran off, afraid of what his sleep-ridden mind made him do. The thought doesn’t last long as I hear the sounds of someone fiddling with things in the kitchen.

I make my way down to the first floor and see him through the open door. He’s making two cups of tea facing the counter. I allow myself to look at him briefly before this moment of peace ceases and we have to discuss what happened last night.

John turns around to set the cups on the table and sees me. I hesitate to say his face lit up, but I swear the morning sun brightened across it when his eyes met my own.

“Hello.” His tone is light, but I see his fingers twitch against the table just slightly. _He’s nervous._

“Hi,” I manage to respond.

John sits down, “Tea?”

I walk over to the table from the landing and rather than sitting across from him, I sit beside him. The tea is still too hot, but I sip from it regardless to give my hands something to do. John is the first to speak. He stares in front of him.

“You know you’re my best friend,” he states. It’s not a question. Of course I do, especially after what happened when he told me the first time.

“Yes,” I answer anyway.

“You know you’re my best friend, and now that everything’s… done, I suppose, I—well,” he stumbles.

“What is it, John?” I think I know, but it’s not enough. He turns and looks at me, but I stare at my tea.

“Sherlock, look at me?” he asks cautiously.

I shut my eyes for a moment and turn to him, but I can’t look at him for longer than a few milliseconds. I’m looking down when he grabs my hand again. He’s still warm like the night before. My heart may burst out of my chest.

“I’m sorry for not… letting you in lately. Being angry all the time. It’s not… I shouldn’t have done that,” he apologises. He apologises to me while holding my hand. It’s an experience I would have thought impossible to happen more than once.

“If I’d told you everything maybe you wouldn’t—”

“Stop. Can you promise me to stop blaming yourself for everything? We both did stupid things.”

I nod and turn my hand around in his so I’m holding it back. Something small to tell him this is okay. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he tilts my chin up, making me meet his eyes. My breathing quickens.

“What do you need, Sherlock?” Oh, John.

“You,” I mirror from just 6 hours before. I can’t keep my eyes open. I have to close them so the world doesn’t escape through them. Tears start to form under my eyelids and before they can fall John speaks again.

“Hey, look at me,” he coaxes gently. I stare at him for a moment when, “I want to ask you something, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, voice weak.

“Can I kiss you?” And it’s as if I cannot possibly nod fast enough.

My life has been defined much by what my senses experience. I use my visual and audible and tactile senses for the work I do everyday. My deductions rely on me to be able to see, hear, smell, touch (and sometimes taste) the world that surrounds me. I have experienced my senses while high on cocaine, morphine, various other opiates. I’ve been drunk, and seen what the world was like with alcohol masking it. I’ve experienced being touched in (most) ways through hugs, kisses on the cheek from my mother and Mrs. H, pats on the shoulder, hands running through my hair. I’ve received 195 bee stings in my life. I’ve smelled Mrs. Hudson’s various pies, biscuits, and cakes. I’ve been burned, beaten, shot, kidnapped, whipped, stabbed. I had thought it was highly unlikely for there to be a sense I could not predict or had not felt myself.

And then John Hamish Watson kisses me for the first time, and it is entirely impossible for me to have ever predicted just what this feels like.

It’s warmth at first. Lips touching lips. Then it’s tea, toothpaste, and toast. But once the surface fades, it is John. It’s John so fully and completely and I’m certain there is not one sensation in my entire life quite like kissing John.

The pain that has lived within my chest for all 34 years of my life ceases entirely when John holds my face in his hand as his lips meet my own, and I swear I could do anything.

To my dismay, he pulls away after the fleeting moment in which we crossed over the line we’ve been dancing along for far too long. I don’t let him speak first this time.

“I love you,” I say because I must. I say because absolutely nothing else could come out of my mouth right at this minute.

John places his forehead against mine and smiles with his eyes shut. “I love you,” he says back.

And I breathe. It’s a relaxing breath that, when I exhale, releases 5 years of waiting. 5 years of anticipation. 5 years of Not-Having-John's-Lips-On-Mine time that I cannot get back.

“How long?” he asks softly after a brevity of silence.

“Since you shot Jeff Hope to save my life,” I respond. “You?”

“Since the pool. The first time.”

I hum approvingly in response, letting my eyes flicker shut in the comfort of his hold. “John?” I say after a while.

“Hm?”

“Kiss me again?” I ask.

And he does.


	9. and whispers in your ear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Final Problem Pt. 3 - John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go.

Kissing Sherlock Holmes is an electric buzz that shoots through my body. It’s waking up after half a decade of being half asleep. It is nothing and everything at once, a singularity in my life the rest seems to revolve around. Kissing Sherlock is flames of passion and waves of relaxation in one fell swoop. Kissing him is everything I’ve ever needed.

I think back to all the times I wanted to do this. To the hallway after dinner at Angelo’s that first night. To when he clutched me by the shoulders and spun me in circles to try to get me to retrace steps I had photographed. To New Year’s Eve when he serenaded me with violin; avoiding the discussion he didn’t want to have. To Grimpen, when he was afraid and I wanted to assure him that I could be so much more than his only friend. To the roof, how I wanted to climb my way up and kiss him and tell him that he wasn’t alone. To when he came back and instead of kissing him, my fist met his lips. To quiet dance lessons in this very flat leading up to a wedding I felt inclined to follow through with. To every single moment since then. _Sherlock, I have wanted to kiss you every single stupid day since I first saw you, and I don’t quite have an answer for why it took this long._

The second time I kiss him, tears start to fall. There’s years of horrific instances between us, and one of those only happened less than a week ago. I pull away again and wipe away the wetness on Sherlock’s cheeks.

“It’s alright,” I mumble to him, still holding his face in my hand; contradicting the tears he is wiping away from my cheeks himself.

We both know there’s more to discuss. There’s business with Moriarty we still have to sort out. There’s a standing request from Mycroft to go see him at his MI6 office with Lestrade. That’s for another day, though. That’s for when this is just slightly less fresh in both of our minds and bodies. When it’s not mere minutes from the very first time our lips touched.

My breathing steadies and I move my head back to get a good look at him. There’s a vulnerability resting on Sherlock’s features I never thought I would be able to see before now. I can tell he’s overwhelmed—hell, so am I—so I wait to say anything for a bit.

To my surprise, he speaks first. The adrenaline has faded a bit, and he frowns.

“You…” he waits for a moment before he finishes the thought, “You want… this?” Oh, Sherlock.

“Yes,” I reply with a hushed enthusiasm. “God, Sherlock, yes.” I lean forward again to cup his face in my hands. How could he have managed to see every detail of who I am except for the most important one? “I have for so long.”

He takes a deep breath and looks at me, eyes bloodshot and raw, cheeks flushed and soft. I could swear I’ve never seen him so beautiful.

“Even after… everything?”

“We’ve both managed to muck up lots of things between one another, haven’t we?” I drop my hands and run them down his shoulders. “Moriarty’s gone. For good, this time. Can’t we start over and try this?”

“How do you know I won’t manage to muck this up too?” he asks, voice small and still a bit afraid.

“This time you talk to me about things, okay? You don’t have to hide anything from me anymore.”

Sherlock shuts his eyes again to process and opens them again a minute later. He almost looks relieved that I’m still there. He brings his forehead back to mine.

“I’m so in love with you, John,” he speaks in a whisper. My body is light.

“I’m so in love with you, Sherlock.” More than he could possibly know.

I decide to stand and take his hand in mine, gesturing for him to get up with me.

“C’mere,” I say softly. I pull him into a hug and we stand there wrapped around one another for a long while. Sherlock retreats only slightly to check with my face to be sure of _something,_ and he kisses me again. It’s different, with both of us standing up. There’s a sense of urgency, almost, behind him being the one to instigate it.

Our kiss deepens as time goes on. My hand goes to his neck, his hand goes to my hip. We stumble into his room, and the morning turns into afternoon.

—

I wake up after a shared afternoon nap to see Sherlock next to me and warmth spreads through my chest. He’s leaning on my right side with an arm completely across my front. The scars scattered across his back—the scars I only knew existed mere hours ago—are a textured map of the years he spent trying to save me from the harms of the world. When he removed his shirt in front of me for the first time since he’d gone, I held him and we cried again because of the time we’d lost.

Every scar across his torso, those he chose to have to let his true self shine, and those that were inflicted upon him from unfriendly hands, were different pieces to a story of Sherlock Holmes. It’s a story I would read again and again, loving every possible minute.

He rustles next to me as his eyes flicker open, and I smile down at him.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hello,” he repeats back, returning the smile as well.

“Did you sleep okay?”

“I can’t remember sleeping so well before in my life.”

And we lie in the silence of this bit of perfection for as long as we can manage.

“Tomorrow, we’ll have to speak to Mycroft,” I say after a while.

He grumbles with a playfulness that makes me smile wider. “Why can’t the rest of the world just go away for a few days?”

I chuckle and kiss his head of curls. Somehow it’s been a matter of hours and there’s an ease between us unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. “If only.”

“Tomorrow, I’ll let it resume rotating for a bit. After that, I refuse to leave this bed. For at least two days,” he declares with a sense of finality.

“Sounds wonderful.” And it does, truly.

—

Lestrade agrees to meet us at the MI6 headquarters the next day and Sherlock instantly seems off-put. I hold his hand as we walk up, to which he stops for a minute to process that we’re out in public and his hand is in mine. Once he does, he holds it back, but his expression worries me.

“What is it?” I ask calmly as we walk up.

“There’s… one last thing with all of this that I’m not quite sure of,” Sherlock says with a nervousness that I thought was completely dissipated since Moriarty’s death.

“Do you want to tell me what it is?”

He shuts his eyes, resigned, and, “When we get inside.”

We join up with Mycroft and Lestrade and the details all begin to fall into place. The pieces Moriarty and Mary decided to leave out, like the fact that _dearest_ Jim was responsible for the majority of the cases Sherlock and I ever took. The fact that Janine is his sister, placed in close quarters with Magnussen to keep tabs on him. The fact that James Moriarty managed to manipulate and control the largest aspects of Sherlock’s (and my) career, only allowing the parts he wanted to bubble up to the surface.

But Sherlock still looks anxious for some reason.

“Mycroft,” he begins after maintaining silence throughout most of the process thus far.

“What is it?” Mycroft responds. Lestrade sits between them, puzzled by the abrupt interruption.

“Was there a time you were intending to tell me that the only way for all of these pieces to possibly have worked,” Sherlock continues. “Were if someone incredibly close to me provided access to constant viewing abilities for my daily activity?”

Mycroft just stares at him for a moment. I know what he’s trying to imply, and it’s horrifying. A rage boils in the pit of my stomach. _How dare he._

“And that it would be even more useful if said person had access to high quality CCTV surveillance, as well as connections to foreign governments to negotiate with in his criminal interests?”

I’ve never once seen Mycroft Holmes more terrified than I do at this very second. He very well should be terrified.

“I-,” he opens his mouth.

“How long did you expect it to take me? The slow little brother?” Sherlock is trying to sound angry, but a sadness covers his features.

“What the hell…” Lestrade mumbles.

“Sherlock… I assure you that—” Mycroft tries to explain but,

“You promised me there was nothing else,” I butt in finally. Done being passive. Done letting this just be between them. “You _not only_ told that _THING_ everything you could about your own brother, you HELPED HIM.”

“He was going to kill Sherlock if I didn’t—”

“HE ALMOST DID KILL US, MYCROFT!” I scream, standing up now in my own fit of outrage. “HE TRIED MORE THAN A DOZEN TIMES!”

Moriarty had done many things both Sherlock and I were unaware of over the years. We’d had much of them laid before us, but apparently there was one final piece to the web we had to learn of last.

I take a deep breath after a fittingly long silence. “He took Sherlock away from me for two years, because of what _you_ did.”

There is nothing more to say, except:

“Lestrade, do entertain the courtesy of arresting my elder brother,” Sherlock spits out before standing up alongside me. The two of us storm out of the bleak room, my heart racing. The second we get into the sitting room of 221B, I turn to Sherlock (calmer, this time).

“Are you okay?” is all I can think to ask.

He sighs, and tired eyes meet mine. “At least everything is finally over, and we can start this,” he replies, reaching out to touch my arm.

“It’s fine if you’re not, Sherlock.”

He sighs again and leans down to meet my forehead (he seems to find comfort in it). “Just stay with me?” His voice is so unbearably cautious and delicate.

“Gladly.”

—

It isn’t until a few days later that we’re in Sherlock’s (which is now our?) bed late at night, finally discussing what exactly _this_ is.

“Do I get to call you my boyfriend now?” he asks me, smiling. I can’t help but smile back.

“If you’d like to, yeah.” Sherlock’s hand is resting on my stomach and I mindlessly run my fingers along the back of it.

“Does that make me your boyfriend too?”

I look at him, grin spread wide across my face. “If that what you wanna be called.”

He pulls me into a kiss and everything is weightless and wonderful. “You’re my boyfriend,” he says playfully. I feel like a giddy teenager, talking like this with him. But the innocence of it is incredibly refreshing given our track record.

“You’re _my_ boyfriend,” I say back. We smile so much these days, it’s quite a good change in scenery around here.

After a moment of silence and existing in this frozen section of time, the weight of room deepens and I readjust a bit to look at Sherlock properly.

“Sherlock.”

“Hm?”

“You know that… this is it for me, right? I’m not going anywhere after this,” I say it because I can’t seem to keep anything in anymore.

He stares at me for a second, blank faced, before responding with, “Oh.”

“I hope that’s alright with you,” I utter, running my hand up and down his forearm.

“I never thought… I didn’t think you would want—”

I take his face in my palm, “I will always want you, love.”

Sherlock blinks at me through a very long stillness, until, “Thank God.” It’s in a whisper, almost to himself.

I understand his hesitation. Hell, if I were in his position I would have more than enough reasons to doubt what I’m saying. I’ve tried my hardest to hide myself through trying to be _normal,_ surrounding myself with boring dates with women I felt nothing for. I’ve tried my hardest especially in my time knowing Sherlock, to hide behind that false identity. I shouted across rooms that I “am not gay,” without a moment’s thought. He wasn’t necessarily there to hear all of them, of course, but he certainly heard enough of them.

“I spent a long time being scared of… the lot of it really. But I don’t think I need to be afraid anymore. Being with you like this, even for less than a week is the best I’ve felt in years,” I expel the words from my brain so he knows.

He doesn’t say anything for a bit, just simply nods. He kisses my chest and rests against me—a comforting weight.

“I love you, John.”

“I love you, Sherlock.”

Outside the window, summer breeze blows, coming from the west. Our words are carried with the air, wrapping around one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here the regular part of this fic comes to a close. I've been working on this beast consistently for the last two months, and it's been incredibly healing. After everything with series four, this was precisely what I needed to make everything feel a bit better. There will be a tenth chapter epilogue for all of you to shed a bit of a glimpse into the rest of their lives together. 
> 
> I hope this fic made any sorrows you have about series four lessen just slightly. I hope that what I've done here did the characters you know justice, and please let me know if it has. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for taking time to read through this and go on this journey with me, and I hope you come back to read the epilogue (weddings and Sussex and dogs and a soft experience of growing old with one another).


	10. i wasn't ready then, i'm ready now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue, of sorts
> 
> Title of this chapter is based on [Sweetest Devotion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b-MQNDmw9p8) by Adele

 

>   _I wasn't ready then, I'm ready now_
> 
> _I'm heading straight for you_
> 
> _You will only be eternally_
> 
> _The one that I belong to_
> 
> _The sweetest devotion_
> 
> _Hits me like an explosion_
> 
> _All of my life, I've been frozen_
> 
> _The sweetest devotion I know_
> 
> _~Sweetest Devotion, Adele_
> 
>  

* * *

 

The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

**11 July**

_Changes_

Hello everyone! It’s been awhile since I’ve posted on here, and many new things have happened that I want to share.

About 5 and a half years ago, on 29 January, 2010, I was introduced to a man I then described as, “certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he looks about 12 and he's clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming.”

A bit of jumbled mess, that is, isn’t it? Needless to say, after our first interaction that day I was quite mixed up in my own feelings. I’d been back home from Afghanistan for such a short time, and I didn’t think anything was going to happen. But, somehow Sherlock Holmes swooped in, almost hero-like, to make something happen; to save me from whatever rubbish hole I was falling down.

Sherlock, I know you’re reading this even though you might try to deny it from the other room. And I know as well that you may be reading it, thinking that I’m overly romantic or something.

But what I’ve found is that yes, even Sherlock, can be quite the romantic himself (he will probably kill me for saying that publicly, but it must be done).

That leads into the title of this post: Changes. There’s been rather a lot of changes coming at us both lately, some of which we chose and some of which we didn’t. Despite some of the more negative changes, I’m back in 221B, for good this time, and I’m happy. Really, really happy for the first time in quite a while. And it’s all because of Sherlock Holmes. I’m not quite sure how he does it, though it seems to be that every time I need him, he’s here. I try my best to do the same for him.

I didn’t plan for this to be a love letter of sorts, however it’s sort of turned out that way. I’ve gotten to a point, though, that I don’t have to hide this anymore.

So, yeah, me and Sherlock. Sherlock and I. Just the two of us, against the rest of the world, right?

**19 Comments**

JOHN!!!!!!! You must call me THIS INSTANT!

Harry Watson 11 July 17:58

————————————————

I’m so proud of you boys for finally working it out. <3 Much love.

Mrs. Hudson 11 July 18:32

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Hang on… You and Sherlock are?

Bill Murray 11 July 18:46

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THEY’RE BOYFRIENDS BILL!!!!!!! SO CLOSE TO JOHN’S BIRTHDAY TOO!!!!!!!

Harry Watson 11 July 18:52

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Harry, you’re acting like a child. But yeah, Bill, we’re together now.

John Watson 11 July 18:59

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This time I know the overly romanticized phrasing is directed at me, so it’s much more acceptable.

Sherlock Holmes 11 July 19:05

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Wasn’t it always directed at you?

John Watson 11 July 19:07

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I could only hope.

Sherlock Holmes 11 July 19:10

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You two really are adorable, aren’t you?

Harry Watson 11 July 19:22

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Shove off.

John Watson 11 July 19:27

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Congratulations to both of you! I’m so glad you worked it all out.

Molly Hooper 11 July 19:43

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Couldn’t have done it without your advice, Molly.

John Watson 11 July 19:58

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It’s about time, you two! The three of us should go out for drinks to celebrate.

Greg Lestrade 11 July 20:04

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Maybe not drinks for me, but come to our place for dinner?

John Watson 11 July 20:07

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We could plan a little party!

Mrs. Hudson 11 July 20:10

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I refuse to have more than 3 people in this flat at one time.

Sherlock Holmes 11 July 20:12

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It could be fun, Sherlock!

Molly Hooper 11 July 20:13

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Maybe some time in the next couple weeks, you lot. For some reason Sherlock’s being a grump about it.

John Watson 11 Juny 20:15

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You’ve spent too much time on your blog today. Come back into the living room.

Sherlock Holmes 11 July 20:19

—

**_19 July 2015_ **

My testosterone injections are something I have always done myself. From when they began at age 22, I demanded that I could do it on my own without my doctor’s assistance. Even when I met John, a trained physician that I trusted. There was the ordeal of telling him I was trans initially, and asking him to help with my jabs felt like I was asking too much from him. He’s never been anything less than supportive and wonderful to me, however. He’s never once misgendered me and often clarifies things he’s uncertain of. From the very beginning he was this way, but I never thought to get his help with actual aspects of the medical side of it. Especially given where the injection site is.

But now John and I are boyfriends, partners, whatever you want to call it. He sees me at my most vulnerable, and never once shies away from it. So, when I need to get my weekly dosage, he’s the first to broach the subject.

“Do you want me to help with that?” I process what he’s asking after picking up the syringe and mindlessly preparing the needle.

“O-oh,” I stammer for a second. “I didn’t know you’d want to.”

“If you’d be comfortable with that, yeah,” he replies gently. We both know he’s completely qualified, but there’s more to it than that.

“I’d love that.” John beams back at me. Truly beams, as if he’s a ray of sunlight. My chest fills up.

I kiss him slowly with both hands on his cheeks, telling him how important this is to me in the best way I can.

John is a doctor, who has given hundreds, probably thousands of injections in his lifetime. Despite that, this is still unfamiliar to him in some ways. When I tell him that he has to put a needle in my bum cheek, he blushes for a second before we both start giggling. The second he actually preps the syringe and everything, though, he turns very professional until it’s over.

“All done!” he announces with a kiss to my clothed lower back. I pull my trousers back up and turn to him, smile wide across my face.

“Thank you,” I say softly to him, draping my arms over his shoulders. It’s more than for just the jab, of course. _Thank you for welcoming every single part of me. Thank you for loving me wholly and totally every single day. Thank you for being John._

“Thank _you_ for letting me,” he replies, as if capable of hearing my thoughts. He kisses me and I wonder how it’s possible for me to be this lucky.

—

**_20 August 2015_ **

I decide to take a part-time job working as a medical consultant for a homeless shelter. It doesn’t pay wonderfully, but it’s interesting and important work, so I do what I can. It’s also taking us a bit to get back to taking cases regularly. Sherlock promises me we’ll only take milder ones for a while (maybe forever), and I believe him. He doesn’t get those fits of boredom he used to.

Initially I think it’s just because he’s getting older, until he says one morning:

“Most of the time when I got upset like that it was because I wanted to go to bed with you and I couldn’t,” deadpan. As if it’s not both the funniest and most wonderful thing he’s ever said at the same time.

I laugh for a second, “Is that so?”

“Why else do you think I was tossing a giant harpoon about and begging you for a cigarette right before we left for Dartmoor?” he says into my shoulder.

“I thought it was my imagination.”

He shifts up a bit to look at me, “It was quite real,” he swears in a mock serious tone. I stare at him for second before we both go into a fit of laughter over how ridiculous this discussion is.

“You are unbelievable,” I speak after we’ve both calmed down.

“You are remarkable.”

—

**_29 August 2015_ **

Molly tells me she has a date with Stella Hopkins from Scotland Yard one day while working on things at the lab. I take a moment to smile and congratulate her.

“She’s one of the truly smart people they have working for them,” I affirm. Molly grins at me.

“Yeah… she seems quite friendly,” she adds in her shy manner.

“I hope it goes well for the both of you.”

She turns to me with a bit of surprise, but then her posture eases and her smile returns, “Thank you, Sherlock.”

—

**_7 September 2015_ **

“You secretly like these Bond films, don’t you?” I ask him when the living room is dark and we’re far too close together on the sofa.

“I mostly enjoy watching your reactions. The way how, despite seeing them dozens of times, you manage to still be entertained and surprised by the plot twists and the one-liners as if you’re a new audience member,” Sherlock answers.

“And I imagine you think that makes me an idiot.”

“Not at all, I think it makes you optimistic.”

I’m hardly even paying attention to the movie anymore. I lean in and kiss him carefully, only to pull away a tad to say:

“You are smitten, Sherlock Holmes.”

“And _you_ are obsessed with Bond films, John Watson.”

“Among other things.”

—

**_14 October 2015_ **

Marriage was not part of my “plan.” Granted, my plan often didn’t extend past the next morning most days until I met John. Now, however, it seems as if doing absolutely anything but living the rest of my life by his side would genuinely kill me.

I got the rings with Mrs. Hudson one day when John was at work. She reassured me of exactly what John and I would need. Now, I stare at his, twirling it through my fingers while the box sits on the bedside table.

Today’s the day.

John only works four hours today, so I utilise my time as best as possible to make it truly perfect. Signifiers of our lives together cover the sitting room entirely. His old cane leans against the chair next to the sofa. My violin with the song I composed back during our first New Years together (which I imagine he didn’t know was for him at the time), sit on the coffee table. A menu to Angelo’s (which we both admittedly know back-to-front) is on the desk.

The trail of items go on to tell the best story I could manage of how we got from the beginning to the present. It leads him into what is now our bedroom, where I’ll be waiting.

I hear him approach the front door downstairs and rush to perfect a few details before bolting to the bedroom.

—

As I get home, the flat is oddly quiet. I open the door to the sitting room and I hear violin begin to play. I know it’s Sherlock, but it can’t be live since his violin is gently placed on the cleared coffee table with a piece of sheet music tucked underneath it. I look at the title and it says:

“John,” with the date of 31 December 2010 beside it. I vividly remember that first New Years during the Adler case. I didn’t realise he named the composition after me.

I find what is essentially a trail of our memories scattering the flat. I see the smiley face, still left painted on the wallpaper. I see my old cane from all those years ago. I see the (slightly less messy) stacks of papers and books on our desk. And it’s right at this moment that I truly see our entire home. Our entire journey.

The music leads me to our bedroom. Through the kitchen lined with take-away menus and an empty bottle of scotch from the stag night (I didn’t realise he’d kept that). The door is slightly cracked when I reach it, and I push it open to see him. He’s standing in the middle of the floor with one of his best suits, and he just looks at me. He pauses the music on his little stereo. Tears flitter around my eyelids but I’m demanding they stay there until Sherlock speaks.

“John, erm,” he stutters. I think I may know what he’s about to say to me, but I have to be certain.

“What’s all this for?” I ask softly. Sherlock walks a bit closer to me and takes my hands in his. He can’t seem to look at me in the eye, but that’s all right.

“I—well,” he begins again. “I had a whole speech and now I can’t seem to get it out.”

“That’s okay, love,” I respond, running a hand up his arm.

He squints his eyes and takes a deep breath, opening up again to look at me.

“I-I know that you’ve had negative experiences before with… relationships… and I know you might not…” he trails off again and tightens his grip on my hand.

“Keep going, Sherlock.”

“Up until a few months ago I’m sure you didn’t think I wanted relationships at all… but,” he inhales again. “I don’t want anyone else, John. I never have, and I never will. And I know I’ve already made a vow to you once before but, I’d like if perhaps this time they could be just between the both of us instead.”

A few tears escape onto my cheeks and I cup his face, smiling. He reaches into his inner jacket pocket and pulls out a small, dark wooden box. It clicks open to reveal a ring (steel, lined with black, it’s lovely), and he takes it out, looking at me.

“So? Will you… marry me, John?” he asks in an incredibly soft voice. My grin widens even more through my crying, and I nod before,

“Yes, God, Sherlock, yes, of course I will.” He smiles back to me and lets out a breathy laugh, full of nerves. He quickly slips the ring onto my finger (perfect fit, of course) and he kisses me. It’s tender and wonderful and I swear that all the light in the world exists only between the two of us. I have spent far too much time doing things other than promising my life to Sherlock Holmes, and I don’t want to spend another day apart from him. I would say yes tomorrow, next week, in 20 years I would say yes every time. I didn’t know until not very long ago that _he_ would want to say yes to _me._

He pulls away a bit, hand still resting on my cheek (warm, comforting, safe).

“I love you,” I say; a compulsion. Ever since I’ve been allowed to say it, it’s as if I can’t stop.

“John,” he responds in a whisper. He shuts his eyes and rests his head on my shoulder. I leave tiny imprints of my lips along his neck and we stand in each other’s space—content.

—

**_6 January 2016_ **

For all the birthdays I’ve had in my life, my 35th is set to be the best so far. Our wedding is just three weeks away, and 221B has changed its scenery quite a bit. It’s not a large guest list (neither of us keep many friends), but I have meticulous charts and lists of every detail. John tries to tell me that it’s all going to work out fine, but I can’t seem to stop double and triple and quadruple checking every last step.

On the morning of my birthday, John is not on the left side of the bed where he belongs. I don’t make an effort to figure out where he might be at the moment, but perhaps he had to go in for an impromptu shift at the homeless shelter. It’s okay, we’re getting married soon. I don’t have to worry about him leaving to go somewhere temporarily. Plus, I can’t say I really expect him to do much for my birthday given our upcoming nuptials.

To my surprise, our bedroom door creaks open slowly from behind me and John tiptoes in.

“Sherlock, are you awake?” he says in a hushed voice. He’s carrying something but I can’t see what.

“Mmrph,” I groan into the pillow to answer. He sits on my side of the bed and touches my thigh.

“Can you turn around?”

I comply and flop over to see him holding a tray, with a cup of tea, a plate of toast with honey and some eggs. It’s a small meal (he knows I won’t eat much more than that), and upon seeing it I feel warmth spread around my body.

“Oh, you…” I begin, but words don’t come. It’s the tiniest gesture, something I’ve heard other couples do all the time. Although it strikes a chord within me that I can’t seem to explain. John’s made me meals countless times in the past, but this is the first time he’s ever brought the meal to me within minutes of me opening my eyes. An overwhelmingly lifting and yet heavy affection fills me up and I have never been more thankful to have him _here,_ with me. Clearly, my lack of a response indicates something to him when he asks:

“Is it alright?”

I look up to meet his eyes when tears leave a wetness around my own.

“No one’s ever made me breakfast in bed before,” I mumble. John gives me a look (not quite pity… love? Is that what that looks like?), before setting the tray delicately on the floor. He leans over, takes my face in his hands, and leaves two gentle kisses on my cheeks. He leaves a warmth behind there, my face heating under his lips.

“Sit up a bit, love, you can lean on your pillows against the headboard,” he says, moving my pillow from underneath me as I slowly scoot upwards. He places the tray on my lap and climbs over my legs to get to his side of the bed, grabbing my hand briefly. “Happy birthday.”

I turn my head to face him and pull him towards me to leave a kiss on his forehead, “Thank you.”

—

**_29 January 2016_ **

The two of us wake up on the morning of our wedding curled around one another. I’m half on top of Sherlock, legs tangled around his, and my arm reaching up his back; my ring touching his shoulder blade. My face is tucked in the crook of his neck and I greet him with light kisses under his chin.

“Mmmorning, fiance,” he says softly, running his hand along my ribs.

“Can’t call me that much longer,” I murmur, a smile stretching across my lips.

He hums and adjusts slightly so he can look at me properly.

“I’m gonna make you my husband today,” Sherlock declares, lips almost touching my own. I bridge the gap, tenderly sharing an existence.

“Not if I make you my husband first,” I tease. He grins into the next kiss and I wonder if we’re ever going to get out of this bed and into our suits.

—

While I didn’t have to get our rings sent back for fittings, I did send them back to get engraved. The other’s name carved into the inside of our respective steel bands; as if to brand our skin with a mark to make not only ourselves, but the world know who we belong to.

John and I decided that the suits would match, but not be identical. So, my waistcoat is black with indigo lining, and my tie is indigo. John’s waistcoat is the same blue with black lining, and a black tie. No boutonnieres, just simple and elegant.

I’ve seen John in his suit during fittings in the months leading up to this intimate affair, with only a small gasp and a kiss to his temple. But when I see John in his suit the morning of our wedding day, I could swear (if I had less knowledge of the principles of human anatomy) that my body begins to melt at the sight. His hair is styled only slightly, his short bangs pushed back with my assistance and expertise. His perfectly tailored trousers and jacket compliment his compact and masculine figure in such a way that shortens my breath. I stare at him from the doorway while he preens himself over. I got myself dressed in the bathroom, for purpose of ceremony.

John turns to me and the silence is dense with love.

“Hello, fiance,” he says softly.

“Hello,” I reply. He keeps making over his clothing as if there’s anything in need of fixing (there isn’t; he’s perfect), when I walk over to him and hug him from behind, kissing his hair. I pull away just enough so my voice isn’t muffled, and lean my forehead against the back of his crown.

“You look beautiful,” I whisper.

He covers my hands with his own on his torso and smiles into the mirror. I peek to see.

“So do you,” he replies.

—

We decided, after over a month of deliberation, to hold the ceremony in the (actually tidy/partially cleared out) living room of 221B. Lestrade, Molly, and Stella helped us move the sofa up to my old bedroom, along with the coffee table, extra chair, small bookshelves, and the desk. It took multiple days, but Sherlock and I managed to decrease the level of clutter by quite a bit. All that remains is the lighting fixtures and our respective chairs. They’re leaned up against the built-in bookshelves, but we felt it was important for them to remain.

The reception is planned for Angelo’s, which we rented out for the evening. He’s going to be at the ceremony as well.

I walk into our cleared out living room and see Sherlock, standing in his wedding suit, playing the song he wrote for me all those years ago on his violin.

The guests should be arriving in two hours, and Mrs. H is setting up the decorations in the foyer with Molly as we speak.

But there Sherlock is, facing the windows that open up to the busy (and rainy) streets of London, playing his violin. I lean against the threshold of the kitchen leading into the sitting room and watch him. He must have heard me wander in, so he turns to me and smiles, continuing to play the chords. Music fills our home together as light rain falls outside.

—

Our guest list is comprised of:

  * Greg (yes, I do in fact know his name) Lestrade (best man & officiant)
  * Molly Hooper (maid of honour)
  * Martha Hudson
  * Violet and Siger Holmes
  * Stella Hopkins
  * Mike Stamford
  * Harry Watson
  * Angelo



We avoided John’s extended family as well as mine, and no acquaintances, to avoid unnecessary questions about Mary and the both of us being gay. Plus, there truly isn’t enough room for anyone else.

As everyone sits down in the chairs we set up just an hour before, John, Lestrade, Molly, and I all go to the landing, prepared to enter. Lestrade and Molly go first, of course, and then John and I step out into view, him just slightly ahead of me.

—

We wrote our own vows. I started trying to get them down less than a week after I said yes, and I found myself erasing bits and adding others still last night. How do I articulate exactly what he means to my life in words? I try, regardless. We step in front of the fireplace, Lestrade facing the remaining 7 guests sat in the chairs with his speech in front of him. Molly stands off to the side, holding a small bouquet of flowers. I take Sherlock’s hands in mine and stroke my thumb along his knuckles to relax him.

“The few of us here today know—probably better than anyone—just how long and how much it took for these two to get here,” Lestrade narrates. “Hell, I’m sure a few of us even took bets to see when it would happen.” They all laugh a bit, Sherlock and I smile at each other and he squeezes my hand. “Despite taking a bit of extra time to get to this point, I think we can all agree it was bound to happen from that first time we saw them together.” A collective nod. “So, I was asked to officiate this little ceremony to bring Sherlock and John together completely,” he continues. “And that’s all I’ve left. They decided to write their own vows, so, John, if you want to go first.”

There’s a pause in the air as I realise I have to pull out my speech from my pocket and begin this. I do, and I look up again to see Sherlock patiently waiting for me with loving eyes.

I clear my throat and, “Erm… as you know, I’m not the greatest at… talking about how I feel in front of… anyone really. For majority of the time I’ve known you, I haven’t been one to say how I felt about something, I just sort of reacted and let things happen. But today is special, and it’s for us, so I’ll try my best.

“I met you—thanks to Mike—” I gesture to him in his seat, he grins proudly, “exactly six years ago today, when I was at one of the lowest points I’d ever been. You, for some reason, wanted me to not only be your flatmate, but your colleague, and eventually your friend. I’ve since found out we both wanted more than that, but we’re pretty rubbish at feelings, it seems.” I clear my throat again, trying to push down the emotions bubbling up.

“But you saved me time and time again, not only from myself, but in every way, all the time. You sacrificed more than anyone ever should to keep me from harm, and I’m sorry it took me so long to see that.

“You… erm.” I squeeze his hand with the one not holding the paper. “You amaze me everyday, Sherlock. You gave me an entirely different view on the world I walked in, and it made me want to live from your perspective. You may not believe me, and you may think I’m embellishing, but I saw… _nothing_ before you came along and told me all the eccentricities of people and lives that I thought little of.

“I spent far too many days of my life pushing away from that, and I’d like to stop now. I’d like to spend what time I have left here, with you, seeing the world.”

I peek up from my vows, trembling slightly to see Sherlock with tracks of wetness falling down his cheeks. The room is silent save for the rustle of paper and the sniffles of everyone around. I smile at him, wiping away his tears, and wait for him to calm himself enough to take his words out of his pocket and say them aloud. He swallows and releases a shaky breath.

“The last time I made a speech, it was meant to be _about_ you rather than _to_ you, and it was directed to an audience of people. I… I spent weeks trying to make every word perfect and precise so I would say just enough but not too much. And that same evening I made a vow to protect you no matter what happened to me,” he checks with me to keep going by stroking his thumb along my knuckle and I respond in kind.

“Six years ago I was committed to the idea that I had to be alone. I thought it was easier to say I wanted to be alone than want something else and not get it. Er… when I… when I met you, I tried to impress you. I thought I needed to act above feelings so you wouldn’t get put off by the fact that I had them… for you.” I giggle softly, our friends and family follow along.

“You are a soldier, and a doctor. Two things I knew about you from the moment I saw you. You are endlessly vigilant and set on keeping people safe; something I’m not always as good at.” I look down to where the scar under his ribs rests beneath layers of clothes and smile sadly. The one time I failed. “You save lives, everyday, all the time. And you saved mine.” He swallows again and mindlessly runs his thumb along my hand. Tears fall and make the tiniest sound as they hit my collar. I reach up to wipe the marks from my face.

“I didn’t think I would ever say a vow in my life, to anyone. I especially didn’t believe I would say them twice, or have them given back to me. You surprise me, constantly. You are brave, kind, wise, loving, and wonderful, and I could spend all my life making vows to you, John.”

Sherlock tucks the paper into his jacket pocket and we both turn to Lestrade as he dries his eyes. He clears his throat to mask it.

“W-well, er, well,” Greg stumbles. “Let me… erm, get the rings here.” He pulls them out of his pocket and hands them to the both of us.

“John Watson, do you take Sherlock Holmes to be your husband?” The word is remarkable, beautiful, perfect, everything I wanted; the word is made to be attached to Sherlock.

“I do,” slipping the band onto his finger.

“Sherlock Holmes, do you take John Watson to be your husband?”

“I do,” he responds quickly, not moving his glance from my face as he says it. He moves the ring onto my fourth finger and I feel something heavy and perfect in my chest.

“By the power vested in me by the United Kingdom, please, for the love of God, kiss each other,” he says after we spend just a bit too much time staring at one another.

And we do, and it’s everything I have ever wanted resting upon my _husband’s_ lips.

—

**_28 April 2032_ **

I’ll be honest. I did not once in my life, before meeting and falling in love with John Watson, believe I had a future beyond the next month. Future was not part of the vocabulary required to exist, and I barely wanted even wanted to do that for the first 30 years of my life.

Over twenty years have passed since I met John. My hair has begun to gray (only slightly) and the sharp angles and lines of my figure are starting to ache. I have been “Sherlock Holmes (and now Watson) The Consulting Detective” for the majority of my time here, and now is the first time I’m thinking about the future.

When I was still young and lonely, I’d thought it impossible to ever be at peace enough to give up high-stakes, adrenaline heavy work that constantly made my brain work. So full of self hatred that the idea of stopping terrified me. When I started to reject cases to instead visit a museum with my husband (something warm fills me up even saying it still), or to stay at home and read a book, retirement becomes a thought in the back of mind.

The past of Moriarty and “Mary Morstan” is distant and long forgotten. Occasionally ghosts rear their heads, but not bad enough that gentle words whispered through the darkness cannot make them dissipate. We fit in the patterns of each other like an endless puzzle; two lives and two bodies built to love in the other’s space.

Over the last year we have been going through the process of moving out the place we’ve called home for two decades. Mrs. Hudson no longer inhabits 221A, and memories line these rooms like wallpaper. The sounds of central London, while once appealing and calming to my deafening thoughts, is now overwhelming and filled with risk we don’t seek nearly as often. I found a small cottage with a stretching garden, perfect for beekeeping. John thinks it’s charming. There is a surgery in town where he can take part time hours, and our garage is the perfect place for a laboratory. Today is the last day of moving boxes into the house. Molly and Stella assisted us through the process. They’ve been together almost as long as John and I.

The door of our cottage shuts to leave the two of us in our cozy but wonderful sitting room; alone in our new home. I wrap my arms around him, pressing my lips to his forehead.

“We did it,” I declare.

“Yeah, we did,” he says with an attempt at a chuckle.

“I love you,” I say after a bit of quiet. John looks up at me, face almost shining.

“I love you,” he returns, simply. We’ve said it thousands of times over the years. It is natural and everything that’s needed to erase the agony we’ve had to endure.

Our eyes are closed, holding each other in the broad daylight of this sitting room, curtains allowing beams of sunlight to peek through and hit against us. He is solid and beautiful and everything I never thought was possible to have 23 years ago.

John adjusts a bit to meet my eyes after a few minutes, “Do you want to show me the bees?”

“Yes, they’re probably very active at the moment,” I reply. We detach from one another just enough for me to take my husband’s hand and lead the two of us into the garden of our new home. I show him the bees, buzzing and lively as ever, making sweet honey at all times because they cannot do much else. I find that John reminds me of bees.

We adjust to the cottage, to living in Sussex, just a ten minute walk from the beach. We spend our days existing in a peace that neither of us suspected we would be allowed. I glance at the rings adorning our left hands as we walk along the side of the ocean, and even this seaside feels like home with him next to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This project is fully and completely done now, which is incredible to me. I could've have done it without the endless support from Finnen and River throughout the process, assuring me that the work I was doing shouldn't just be deleted all in one go. 
> 
> I hope this full and complete conclusion gives you peace and makes up for any sadness still left over. It's no longer 1895, and Holmes and Watson deserve to live happily in every possible adaptation.
> 
> Much love,  
> Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://dandyholmes.tumblr.com)
> 
> Special thanks to [River](http://taintmotel.tumblr.com) and [Finnen](http://eg-es.tumblr.com) for beta-ing/editing this for me!


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